Hidden
by KKBELVIS
Summary: WARNING! Season Six Warning. AU. Supernatural clone wars. A plain crazy story about Sammy being cloned. Hurt comfort Sam / protective caring Dean.
1. Chapter 1

HIDDEN

By: Karen B.

Summary: Season Six Warning. AU. Borderline crack even. Another short and beyond-crazy explanation as to what is up with Sammy.

Disclaimer: Not the owner! Thank goodness.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hell was a black dungeon full of true horror. The place made even the lowliest of worm's skin crawl. It was a place where demons - who had nothing further to offer, but torture - did so until the end of time.

It hadn't even come close to the end of time, when Sam was somehow yanked from one hell and slammed into another. How long he'd been living in either dark world - he couldn't remember.

Sam groaned, curling up on the ratty, stale cot that was shoved up against a cold wall. With shaky weak hands, he covered himself with blankets that were little more than burlap sacks. His gaze searched the small cellar-like room.

Sometimes when he first woke, he wasn't sure which hell he was in. Both hells smelled of vomit and rotting flesh.

But he'd soon come to know as he knew this room, this hell. Knew every crack, every flaw, every bloodstain. The room was depressing. Grimly silent. The walls and floor the sickly gray color of a dead tree. This prison - like hell's prison - was windowless. Hell was black, this prison only slightly better, dimly lit by a single white bulb hanging from the ceiling.

And just like his previous hell, Sam had tried to dig his way out. Through the floor, the walls, the door - using only his bare hands until his fingers were raw and bloody stumps.

Sam had conquered and defeated the devil - taken back the soul that had been stolen from him - why couldn't he escape a simple cellar room?

After along while, he no longer spent hours digging, but instead prayed. For Dean. For God. For Cas. Apparently, he'd made it to the bottom rung of the food chain, because not even Lucifer would answer his prayers.

He missed the sun, the sky, the wind in his hair. He even missed Led Zeppelin blaring in his ear while he tried to sleep in the passenger seat of the Impala. He missed Dean.

Dean.

His brother wouldn't come looking for him. He promised.

No one would.

For Sam was the least of them all and he'd gone to hell - and in hell - Sam would stay. Be it below or above ground. Those faceless bastards who stole him away from that rainy cemetery, who darted him in the neck daily with a small sedative, saw to that. Sam thought of them, the bastards, as human, like the Benders human. Only they never fed off his flesh. What the hell did they want? Maybe they weren't human after all. They did provide human needs for him, however.

When he'd wake from being sedated, he'd find semi-clean clothes, his daily crappy meal, plenty of warm well water. Occasionally, even the bucket he used as a toilet would be emptied. It was amazing how the barest of essentials could keep a person breathing.

How long had he been here? With no contact what-so-ever. Time eluded Sam. He was in a sort of limbo now. Suspended between heaven and hell. Time itself was torture.

He was kept beaten down, but alive - hidden from the world. Why? Sam had no answers and having no answers was its own special blend of anguish - much more of this and he'd go mad.

Sam sucked in a cold gulp of wet air, his spirit broken, exhausted. He listened to the drumming drops of rain coming from outside, picturing the lightning charged sky with each roll of thunder - giving anything to be set free.

Every time it rained, the cellar became even more damp and miserable.

"Ugh," he groaned, shoulders hunched, chin dropping to his chest as he shivered.

Still, as beaten and forsaken as he was, there was that small spark, somewhere deep inside. That last bit of hope, an immovable die-handedness, that wouldn't allow him to give up.

"You will no...not." Sam's breath whipped away and he struggled to breathe through open lips. "Will not." He fought to catch a lungful of air. "Not win," he gagged, not even having the strength to wipe the spittle from the corners of his mouth.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rain had stopped, but Sam still shivered with cold. His teeth started chattering, and their constant clicking rattled what was left of his brain.

_No, that wasn't his brain rattling, or his teeth clicking. _Sam frowned, gingerly scooting up on the cot, burlap sacks falling to the dirty ground. He quizzically titled his head toward the door. He knew every sound the room made - which was barely none - and never had he ever heard that door so much as squeak. He was always darted into unconsiousness before his captors came in like zoo keepers to clean and water the cage. Now someone was on the other side of that door, tinkering with the deadbolt.

**Click.**

**Click.**

Sam glanced around the room fearfully. He obviously had no weapon. He didn't even have the strength to stand these days. Sam inched back, cramming himself into a corner, like the scared and wild animal he was becoming. Why hadn't the freaks darted him? Did he really want to see the hideous, monstrous face of his captors? Maybe they'd grown weary of feeding him, cleaning his mess. Maybe they were going to end him. Sam bullied his bravado. Good. He could go back to his other tour of duty -at least there - he wasn't alone.

The door suddenly crashed wide open and a burst of fresh, cold air howled through.

Sam jerked, his head slamming back up against the wall so hard the cot shook and he saw a few twinkling stars. He stared absently at the face cloaked in the shadows. That was a face, right? He hadn't seen another person or even a demon in so long.

A man with a rifle stood in the doorway, unmoving and stiff, like a deadly cobra poised and ready to strike. His leather jacket was tattered and torn, a thin steam of blood curling its way down his face from his hairline; dripping to a duffle bag that was slung over his shoulder. The man took one-step inside, his features lit by the dim bulb hanging from above.

The image didn't fit. This wasn't right. The face before him was all wrong. Sam hissed. He couldn't breath. His chest filled with horrid fear, rising and falling too fast. He stared into the man's green eyes that burned bright with fierce anger.

"Nuh," Sam grunted, scrambling and now sitting dizzy and half-cockeyed on the cot, not quit sure what he was seeing.

The man winced, but didn't make any more moves to enter the room. "Hey, easy," he said, squatting nervously down to ground level. "It's me." He balanced on the toes of his muddy boots.

Sam squinted in disbelief, the room spinning slowly around him.

"Sam," the man said in a scratchy, but worried voice. "Just me."

Languidly, the man set his rifle down on the ground between the muddy boots, his eyes never leaving Sam's. "Come on, dude," he softly said as he gradually shrugged the duffle off his shoulder. "I know it's been a while, man, but it hasn't been that long." The bag thumped to the floor.

Sam's gaze lingered on the lone man. There was something about him that made his heart flutter and his body tremble. Sam's gaze flicked from the man to his own trembling hands to the duffle and gun, then back to the man again.

The man waited a long time, slightly rocking back and forth, eyes anxiously traveling around the room with an expression of disgust on his face.

"Fuck," he growled, looking back at Sam. The man's angry face quickly changed. His eyes now full of sorrow, and something more. "I'm sorry," he choked out.

_Sorry for what? _Sam shook his head, searching just past the man and out the open door, wishing he had the strength to bolt and run.

"You been here the whole time?" The man asked.

Sam's gaze returned to the sorrowfully creased face, but said nothing.

"Come on, baby brother. Talk to me here."

The tone was calm. Fatherly even. Yet, Sam was frozen with terror. He said nothing, pressing his lips together, defiant.

"Why don't you want to talk? Usually can never shut you up." The man forced a watery laugh.

Another long moment passed. The man didn't twitch a muscle. Barely breathed or blinked. Just remained quiet, crouched by the door - studying Sam. Only his facial expressions kept changing, from unrelenting angry to horrible soul-deep sadness to utterly scared out of those muddy boots.

The longer the unsettling silence went on, the faster Sam's breathing got, until he was hissing in and out - in loud, harsh puffs of air.

"It's okay," The man gentled. "Whenever you're ready, little brother."

Sam wanted several things all at once. He wanted out of the room. He wanted a hot shower. He wanted to see the light of day. To drink a cup of coffee. Swallow a bottle of painkillers. He wanted to hunt the bastards that did this to him. He wanted…

'Dean.' Sam mouthed with lips too weak to speak out loud.

He took a breath and tried again. "Dean." The word came as a shuttering breath and Sam jolted, nearly falling off the cot to the floor.

A small nod of Dean's head was Sam's only answer.

"I'm going to come over to you now, is that okay, pal?" Dean barely whispered.

A small-mirrored nod was Dean's only answer.

Sam didn't blink, watching. Dean slowly raised halfway. Bent over at the waist - using non-threatening moves and little-by-little - he came to crouch before Sam, but didn't touch.

"You…you shouldn't be here," Sam panted heavily. "Can't be here." He grimaced.

"Why not? Guy can only take so much apple pie, bro." Dean smiled weakly, clenching his fists by his side. "How bad are you hurt?" Gently caring eyes looked Sam over.

Sam shrunk in on himself. He knew his clothes were dirty, and too big for his body. He'd seen the reflection of sunken-into-his skull-eyes in the bucket of piss. His large hands were thin and always shook. He looked more like an old, sick person tucked away in a nursing home, rather than the vibrant youth he once was.

"Dean?" Still unsure.

"It's me, Sammy." Dean angered. "What'd those bastards do to you?" he asked, gaze shooting unnervingly around the room again. Dean's sights landed on the wall just above Sam's head. Sam knew what he was looking at - dripping red letters - written using his own blood.

**DEAN**

The only connection to his brother that he could afford himself in hell.

"Son of a bitch," Dean swore low in his throats, whirling back to Sam.

Sam flinched away.

Dean crouched down lower, ducking his head, peering up into Sam's eyes. "Sam," he coaxed softly. "You know who they are?"

What was wrong with him? Sam's chin quivered, his chest tight and full of emotion. Dean meant him no harm. "I…I never saw any of them. I don't know who they are. What? Why? I…Dean?"

Dean hung his head a moment, then looked up and raised a hand toward Sam, pausing mid-air. "Okay?" he asked permission.

Sam propped himself up a bit, sweaty and weak he reached timidly toward Dean.

The moment their hands touched, a warmth spread through Sam's forever chilled body. He lunged at Dean, wrapping weak arms around his neck - possessive, afraid, relieved - warming.

"Oh, God." Dean clutched Sam closer. "God, Sammy."

Sam could feel Dean's heart hammering against his. Heard Dean's shallow breathing puffing in and out of his ear.

He held his own breath. Waited for the image to liquefy.

_Not a dream. Not a dream. Not a dream. _Chanting in his head.

The very thought that this could be another dream, depressed him and sent spasms of fear bristling the hairs on the back of his neck

"We're fine. Going to be fine." Dean cupped said neck, warm, caring hand kneading tenderly. "I'm here. You don't have to worry. Cas took care of the dicks that were guarding this place."

"Guarding me?" Sam sobbed into the crook of Dean's neck. "I don't understand." Sam drew back.

"I'll tell you later." Dean kept a stable hand curled around Sam's neck. "When I think you can handle it."

"I've been locked away here for…" Sam thought a moment. "I don't know how long…"

"One year," Dean growled.

"Guh," Sam's vision grayed in and out. "A year?"

"Yeah, man."

"But..." Sam pushed himself further away. "Just tell me."

"Sam, I'm trying not to flip you out here." Dean loosened his hold, allowing freedom of movement without letting go.

"Not doing to good a job with that, Dean." Sam swallowed the foulness that wanted to erupt from his gut.

Dean stared at Sam, moving his hand from Sam's neck to his arm. "Close as Bobby and I can figure, you were cloned."

"Genetic engineering?" Sam asked, skeptically.

"Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Travolta and Cage facing off." Dean stiffened. "I don't know what the hell. But the beef cake I thought was you…wasn't."

"Wait. That's impossible." Sam started to sweat, the room spinning around him faster.

"Apparently not, because here you sit."

Sam shook his head.

"Look, Sam, I don't know the why's or how's of crazy central. I hardly understood all that mosquito, frog DNA crap in Jurassic Park. All I know is there are twin monsters and twin people marching all over this planet. Mark's neck was snapped. Guy was deader than dead, and a week later I see him drive by in his truck." Dean ran a hand over his face.

"Who's Mark?"

"Shit," Dean murmured, eyes going wide. "That's right. Real Sam... that'd be you, dude...doesn't know anything about The Walton's."

"Who?"

"Just…just never mind for now," Dean snapped. "We can't trust anyone."

"How'd you find me? How'd you know me…" Sam squirmed uncomfortable. "Wasn't me."

Dean pressed his lips together mentally calculating which 'me' Sam was referring to. "A brother knows his brother, dude," he said with assured confidence. "Besides, you're buff, Sam, but not that buff," Dean gave a light chuckle that faded fast.

Sam quirked his lip. "Huh?"

"You just weren't right." Dean tried to explain the unexplainable. "Ever since you came back." He waved a frustrated hand in the air. "I mean, Mutant-warrior-king you. He had me fooled a long ass time. Bobby even longer. Not even Cas could tell." Dean hung his head in shame. "Last night other-you left while I was still sleeping. Well, other-you thought I was sleeping. But I wasn't, and followed you…'eh other-you…here. I lost Conan the Barbarian, while Cas took out the handful of guards surrounding this place. And here I am. Don't ask me how, but I knew you…the real you… was here. You and a boat load of other monsters and humans that have been cloned."

A chill ran up Sam's spine and he shivered. "This sounds like some sort of Hollywood movie."

"Yeah, well if it is… it's a low budget one."

They sat silent a moment.

"Can you walk?" Dean finally asked.

"Try," Sam garbled. "If I can't walk, I'll crawl." His quivering hand managed to close around Dean's jacket.

"That's my boy," Dean said prideful, hinging an arm around Sam's waist and bearing him up.

"Guh." Sam struggled to breathe through open lips, dizziness sweeping over him in powerful waves. He staggered, every muscle flimsy.

"Sam?"

Sam coughed violently then went stone silent. His fingers went lax, and he lost his hold on Dean's jacket, eyes rolling back and nearly dropping to his knees.

"No. No. No!" Dean yelled. "Up, Sam. Stay up." Dean tugged Sam to his feet. "Here we go. Come on. Work with me here."

Sam mumbled incoherently.

"I've got you covered." Dean propped Sam's weight further against his side, heading them toward the door. "Hold it right there." He leaned Sam against the door jam and bent to retrieve his gun and duffle.

Sam's stomach quitted some and the room slowed to a spinning crawl.

Dean fiddled with his gun a second then shrugged his pack to his shoulder. "Okay." He turned his attention to Sam. "Ready to move, now, Skeletor?"

Sam's eyes slid shut. "I look that bad?"

"You look that good," Dean corrected, apologetically.

Finding it extremely difficult to stay alert, Sam fought to remain on his feet and conscious.

"How do you know this me isn't the other me? How do I know you are you?" Sam slumped against Dean as they left the room attached to one another's hip, and headed down a long corridor.

"Later, Sam, let's just get you out of here."

Sam sighed. Not knowing who was on first, and what was on second was the least of his trouble. Deciding to take the chance, he stumbled along.

"Umph." Sam grunted, wincing in pain.

"Hey, hey, come on." Dean sucked in a huge breath. "Keep walking."

A shudder past through Sam and he closed his eyes.

"You going to make it?"

"I…um….I…" Sam slowly blinked his eyes open, every fiber in his stomach straining to make him vomit. "Good question." He flopped helplessly in Dean's hold, like a rag doll being tossed about on top of a massive, bucking bull.

"Easy." Dean quickly adjusted his stand, pressing a flattened palm to Sam's chest, bracing. "Just take it easy, Sam, and stay close. I know you hurt like hell, maybe I should call Cas and…"

"Keep going," Sam panted, through his burning nostrils. "Get us out of here, before I get sick." He wiped a dirty hand over his face, leaving a smudge.

The nausea curled Sam's toes; he could feel Dean's eyes hard on him. Needing to keep things light, least he fall apart he questioned again, "Dean, so serious, how do you know this is me?" Another stomach spasm hit him hard and Sam's fingers knotted into Dean's leather. "I mean, what if I'm not me? How can you know…if I don't even know?"

"We could have a chick-flick moment," Dean said, keeping his voice lighthearted. "I could tenderly brush a lock of hair behind your ear, kiss your forehead checking for fever and tell you how much I love you. How much I missed you. How you complete me. If this is the 'real' me," Dean winked, "I'll upchuck in your shoe."

"Ewie," Sam squirmed uncomfortably. "Let's not and say we did, okay?"

"Ewie, Sam? Yep, defiantly you. Look." Dean turned serious. "I trust you..."

"But…"

"No buts." Dean stopped dead and turned Sam almost roughly to face him. "I don't need some fancy yahoo DNA test to know that you are the real deal," he said firmer. "Other- you was off from the get, and I was stupid. So desperate to have you back, I let other-you slid under the radar." Their eyes locked, and Sam's whole body shook, his grip on Dean's arm weak. "I trust you, Sam. The real you."

"You didn't trust beef cake dude?"

"No," Dean said with conviction.

Sam's hush puppy eyes watered up. "I trust you too, Dean."

"Good. 'Nough said."

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam was thankful it was nightfall; even the half-moon seemed brighter than the light bulb in his cell. The fresh air was intoxicating, causing Sam's feet to crisscross as Dean whisked him out of the building. The change in air made him hiccup, and for the first time in a long time, Sam was aware of his own powerful stench. He slyly tried to ease slightly away from Dean out of embarrassment, but his knees buckled.

"It's okay, Sam." Dean reigned him back in, seeming to read his thoughts.

Sam smiled when he saw the Impala parked under the shadow of a Willow tree. Home. He wanted to fall to his knees and cry like a baby.

"Dean," Sam choked back a sob. "So, you going to tell me now… what all this Conan, mutant-warrior king, beef cake stuff is about?" he asked, trying to distract Dean from seeing how bad a shape he really was in - emotional and otherwise.

Dean opened the passenger door and lowered Sam in. "Maybe later, Don Knots." He picked up Sam's legs and tucked them under the dash. "When we get some meat on you and get your strength back," Dean said, reaching in to toss his duffel in the back. He shrugged out of his jacket and lay it over Sam.

Sam looked away, blurry vision warning him of the tears that wanted to come. Crying. It was the one thing in the cage and in that cellar room he'd never done, and it was the one thing he could fight no more.

Dean bent down and cradled Sam's chin in his palm, turning him toward him. "There's no place like home, Dorothy." He nodded understandingly. "Go ahead, bro." Dean gave permission.

Sam sighed tiredly and melted into the seat. Closing his eyes, his eyelashes quivered against his skin, salty tears rolling down both cheek.

"Welcome back, Sammy." Dean quietly shut the door.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blah… the kooky end - ? - Or not. Have never ever attempted a WIP... ? Maybe...but scares the hell out of me.

Pending...muse...suggestions welcome.


	2. Roadside America

HIDDEN

Chapter two

AN: Thank you for the loveliest encouragement to try and go forward with this (alternate- universe story- wip) and chancing a read.

Rated: Reader beware. Blind person driving. Not sure what this is. Where it is going. How the heck we are going to get there. Or if we will ever get there. Only hope this can somehow come out of the fry pan and be semi-digestible.

Sunshine, Karen

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam kept his pounding head pressed against the cool glass, eyes shut, and hands in his lap - fingers twitching constantly. Dean was putting major miles between them and hell. Sam didn't even care to see where they were heading.

The Impala clipped along. The sound of the tires surging along the pavement was soothing, sweet as any lullaby, yet he was just too tired to even sleep.

After the tears, he'd just closed his eyes, and didn't dare open them - afraid. Probably wouldn't see anything beyond his nose anyway. Wished he didn't even have a nose, the smell of himself beyond the four gray walls was unbearable. He wondered how Dean was fairing; his window only rolled halfway down. The night air reaching Sam's nostrils smelled like Fall and was warm; yet, he was freezing, but didn't say so. At least the rushing breeze helped to take away some of the burning, eye-watering stench.

Sam had clasped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth slowly for the longest time until exhaustion forced him still.

That was until they must have hit a pothole or perhaps a crater on the moon as the car jolted roughly. Sam clenched his teeth and held his breath, bottling the pain that wanted to grunt out his mouth.

"Sam?" Dean spoke softly. "You doing okay?"

Sam kept quiet. Dean wouldn't like his answer anyway, so he just pretended to be asleep.

"I know you're in there," Dean said a little louder, putting a hand on Sam's arm for good measurer. "Are. You. Doing okay?"

Sam didn't talk. Didn't open his eyes. Just gave a small nod, teeth still clenched, no need to freak Dean out.

"Let me know if you're not." Dean removed his hand and kept driving.

Sam quivered slightly at the loss of the touch. The Impala felt so big. Everything was so big. Why was he so small? He wanted to cling to Dean like an infant. Like he had back in the gray room, but at the same time he was afraid to be touched. Shit. Touchy-feelie was Dean's phobia - not his. Moreover, what of the freaky face lifting crap? Another him. That wigged him out. What phobia did that fall under?

_You are you._

_I am you._

_Sam._

_Who else would you be?_

It was all just so brain-crushing and it hurt to try to wrap his head around anything. The more Sam tried to think, the louder the Octoberfest in his head got. Everyone was having a grand beer tasting, live-n-loud music of a time. Everyone except him. Sam rolled his neck on his shoulders, desperate to ease the tension.

If Sam knew only one thing for sure- Dean was his brother. His real, flesh and blood, not-genetically engineered brother. And if Sam knew only two things for sure - his brother would never hurt him or let anyone else if he could help it.

Sam was just confused. Caged in a small, dark confines for far too long. He was just dizzy and confused and horribly nauseous. His stomach was having a hard time handling the ride. If he was honest, he was having a hard time handling everything.

After a time, the car slowed and came to a stop.

Sam peeked open one eye.

They were parked next to a gas pump, in the parking lot of a Quick Mart.

Dean looked over and gave Sam a smile. "It's Mr. Hanky time," he chuckled.

"What?" Sam asked absently.

"Dude, you need a visual aid?" Dean wiggled pathetically looking uncomfortable in his seat. "You know…going to see a man about a hippo."

Dawning set in fast. "Horse," Sam corrected.

"Hippo, horse, chicken, egg, chocolate log," Den laughed - Sam didn't "You need to…" Dean waved a hand toward the Quick Mart.

"'Er, no," Sam answered quickly.

"Right." Dean's laughter faded. "I'll juice up baby and get us some supplies, too, while I'm at it." Dean opened the car door, one foot to the pavement, he hesitated. "You okay to wait?" he asked uncertainly.

"Been waiting in this car since I was two-years-old, Dean," Sam said defensively and trying to sound brave.

Dean looked like he was going to say something smart assed, but decided better of it. He just nodded, leaving the car door open while he busily began fueling. When Dean was done, he briefly peeked inside at Sam.

Sam faced forward, staring blankly out the bug-slimed windshield - code for - I'm fine, jerk, just go. Sam listened as Dean boot-scuffed slowly away. Then watched as his bow-legged brother came into view - swaggering across the parking lot. Guy never rode a horse a day in his life, so why'd he walk like a rootin' tootin' cowboy? Sam figured Dean had watched one too many Eastwood flicks.

Dean opened the glass door to the Quick Mart and stepped aside, allowing a leggy redhead wearing hot pink leather pants, and applying lipstick on her pouty lips to pass by. Completely ignoring Dean, she headed toward her car. Dean zeroed in on Sam, making eye contact. He made a silly face and flashed Sam a raunchy gesture concerning the woman's large, jiggling bust-size before disappearing into the store.

The comic act almost made Sam feel like this was old times - Dean's intention Sam was sure - far from. Sam caught the woman's eye. For some reason, unknown to Sam, she gave him a fearful look. Her pouty red lips puckering as she fumbled with her car door and keys, unable to drive away fast enough.

More than a little disturbed, Sam went back to staring out the window. Additional people floated in and out of the Quick Mart. Happy people. Sad people. In a hurry people, a smattering of styles and colors and all were shooting him not-so-nice glares.

A sort of dread built up inside of Sam. He started to sweat and his mouth went dry. He shook his head - knew in the back of his mind - not all these people were staring at him. Knew from a college course he'd taken about trauma-induced phobias that he was experiencing symptoms of deprivation. A year without human contact would make the most stable of people - flip.

_These feelings would pass. Just take time. Give it time. Even Kipling's fictional character Mowgli, who was raised by wolves, learned to become a human boy, live in society. Sam wasn't raised by wolves. He'd only spent a year in duel-hell, give or take. He was raised by his brother and his father. He wasn't a boy or a fictional character. But he was a man. A human. Wasn't he?_

A boy with short unevenly cut hair, holding his mother's hand, stuck his tongue out at Sam. Sam scrunched down further in the seat, wishing he were invisible, afraid to be seen.

_Damn it, he wished Dean would hurry up._

Sam sighed. Usually when his brother had to see a man about a Hippo it meant a long, agonizing wait in a cramped, stuffy car. An old, bent-over man tapping across the concrete with his old, bent-up cane glowered at Sam.

Sam slammed his eyes shut. If he couldn't see people, they couldn't see him - a game he used to play as a kid when he was left alone in the car. Sam did the only thing he could do. He listened to the sound of the Impala guzzling dollars and must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew Dean was lifting his head away from the window and titling a bottle of water to his lips.

"Drink a little of this, Sammy."

"Nuh." Sam winced as he swallowed. The water sloshing down his throat was clean and fresh, but it didn't taste right - repulsed his stomach. Maybe it wasn't the water. Maybe it was Dean's hand, like a branding iron burning a handprint into his shoulder and causing Sam to double over; gasp and gag water to the floorboards. Maybe it was the feeling the world was closing in on him - that the sky falling down.

"Sam." Dean freaked, pawing at Sam more and patting a palm hard to his back. "Easy. Need me to do the Heimlich." He reached a hand around to rub Sam's chest.

"Don't." Sam bit his lip bloody. "Please." He tried to gain control, but couldn't stop coughing. "Don't…" he hacked and rocked back and forth, water bubbling out his nose.

"You're okay. Hey." Dean made a move to pull Sam's arms up above his head. A trick big brother used to use when Sam was younger and had swallowed down wrong. "It's okay," Dean said, inching closer as Sam fought against him.

"Don't touch me." Sam drew his arms away violently, curling them toward his chest as he slammed his back against the seat, trying to crawl away from Dean. There was no place to go. Inside was too crowded. Outside was too crowded. Shit. The feeling of his heart beating like crazy inside his chest cavity - was too crowded.

"Bro." Dean titled his head, a scared look on his face. "I washed my hands," he murmured as he raised said hands, twiddling his fingers in the air, obviously trying to make light like he had with the busty redhead.

Didn't work with her - wasn't working now.

Sam breathed rapidly, his heart beating even more erratically and he couldn't stop shaking.

Dean seemed to understand. The way he had understood when he'd first found Sam in the gray room, only eight hours and a few hundred miles ago. Dean didn't say a word. Just backed away from Sam, slipped in behind the wheel and took a moment to put the cap back on the water bottle.

"Slow breaths, Sammy." He stared out the front windshield. "In and out. Slow breaths." Dean set the bottle down on the seat and turned the ignition key, pulling the Impala out of the lot.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Several exits later, Sam had stopped choking and went back to leaning against the glass - eyes staring straight ahead. He could sense Dean's scrutiny.

There were a million things Sam could say, ask, but he just sat there unable to articulate a word. He couldn't say how thankful he was that the black underworld and gray empty chambers were gone. Only thing he could do right now was allow himself to fall asleep - waking here and there to familiar, comforting, and homey sounds:

The cool wind pouring in through the cracked window. He could almost taste autumn in the air

The rumbly tires of passing cars.

Dean. Breathing. Fidgeting in his seat. Taking a swig of water. Tapping his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of a song playing in his own head.

Sam's stomach glugged, like water pouring from a gallon jug. He'd only taken a few sips and hacked most of it up onto the Impala's floorboards. He took a sharp breath. Suddenly, the comforting sound of tapping fingers turned into the beating of a drum, cymbals crashing in his head on every fifth beat. The Impala continued to bounce along. Sam squeezed his eyes shut tighter, falling through endless amounts of black and swirling gray.

**Crash! Boom! Ba!**

Dean's voice floated in and out of the noise in his head. At first a few basic swear words, then quiet whispering. The drum set spun off into the darkness and Sam was left feeling like he'd slipped off a barstool and landed in the bottom of a Tequila bottle - maybe he wasn't Sam. Maybe he was the worm.

"I just past Interstate 271," Dean said in a low tone, obviously talking on his cell phone. "What! Got to be kidding me, man. Eighty-eight miles out," he raised his voice, and then quickly lowered it again. "Eighty-eight, Bobby," he whispered. "No. No way. Sam's on his final leg. He can hardly handle the car ride let alone angel- riding in." The leather seat squeaked, and Sam could feel Dean's eyes on him. He kept very still, breathing steady. "Damn it, Bobby I should have…" Leather squealed again. "I know compounding matters won't help. It's just…" Dean paused, swallowing audibly. "It's this wacky Sci-Fi circus crap man. They're going to be hard-to-pin-down and I don't know what to do." There was an even longer pause. "Can't. Won't do that." A beat of deadly silence. "More important to me than breathing," Dean sighed. "Okay. Yeah. Yes, sir. Thanks, Bobby." The phone flipped shut and a minute or two of silence went by.

"I know you heard that."

"Where we going?" Sam asked, the little bit of water still left in his stomach glugged again.

"Someplace safe. Hidden."

Sam shifted and opened his eyes. He caught sight of his reflection in the glass, crazy long beard and grungy long hair startling him. No wonder all those people were staring and he scared the crap out of the redhead - damn near scare the crap out of himself.

Sam turned to look at Dean.

"Bobby has a cabin he and his wife used as a summer get away. We'll be there soon, Sam," Dean said, keeping his eyes on the dark road and both hands on the wheel.

Sam struggled to sit upright - a normal skill that should have taken no strength at all took on phenomenal effort. He was certain Beefcake him could handle the simple task. Other him - from the sound of Dean's descriptions - probably could do fifty chin ups one-handed without so much as breaking a sweat. Other-him. WTF? If other-him was Sam. Who was he? He remembered being trapped inside himself. On the other-side of Lucifer's mirror. The reflection was his face - but he was not the same guy. To see himself like that. To see Lucifer shining out his eyes. Staring back with all that power all that darkness all that evil manifested inside his body- and now he had another evil twin. A clone.

He would never look at himself in the same way again.

"Umph." Sam gave up his efforts to sit up and sluggishly flopped back in the seat.

Dean glanced over briefly. "I'm here. You're here. Okay, pal?"

Sam looked away not knowing what to say, just barely able to swallow the sick lump that had worked its way into his throat.

"I know, Sammy. I know it's hard." Dean's tone was full of understanding. "I want you to understand. Whatever it takes. I'm going to take them down. Do it with a smile on my face, too," Dean assured heatedly.

Sam wanted to ask who 'them' was, but he wasn't feeling up to knowing just yet.

Hot sweats poured over Sam soaking his shirt. "Dean, roll your window down more," he muttered.

"You're going to get sick, aren't you?" Dean promptly did as requested, rolling down the window all the way.

"I'll be okay." Sam's stomach clamped down and he pushed Dean's jacket off him.

"You don't sound okay, and you're not looking so okay either."

The glow of white headlights streaking by the other side of the small two-lane highway sent everything swimming. Sam groaned, flinging an arm up to cover his eyes. The stronger rush of cool air was not helping much and a battle of wills ensued between Sam and his stomach.

"It'll pass. You haven't been out in the real world for a while. Just a little car sick, man."

"Yeah," Sam whispered darkly.

_T_he 'real' world - according to Dean - was spinning out of control. Sam pressed his feet farther against the floorboards trying to slow the ride. Not good. The floor of the real world dropped out. Sam let his arm fall away, hand resting on his leg. He'd keep his eyes wide open for this ride. Sam squinted, moaning when the bright spotlight of a passing truck lit the dark interior.

Dean muttered under his breath and the Impala accelerated. The night scenery sped on by in a blur as Dean pushed the car faster, sailing smoothly down the curvy road. Sam gripped his thighs and gulped as Dean swerved right going over the double yellow to pass another driver.

Sam glanced over at Dean, a concentrated look on his face.

"Don't need to race," Sam barely whispered. "Slow down."

Dean didn't seem to hear him, paying attention to nothing but the twisty dark road ahead.

For a while, Sam watched the painted line whiz on by. The little bit of water he'd drank continued to slosh around in his gut. Sam took in small panting breaths - not helping. Was as if he had swallowed one of those plastic-chattering-teeth windup toys novelty stores sold to kids. The set of perfect, pearly whites was taking big bites out of his insides right about now. One hand moved toward the car door handle and gripped tight. The wind blowing threw the open window was only exhilarating the scent of rot and death both hells had left him with.

Dean must have sensed Sam's distress because he slammed an infuriated fist to the steering wheel. "Other-you is so barbeque…fried until crisp and served with a side of whoop-ass."

Something thick as snot entered Sam's throat. "Hwa," he gagged, urgently sitting up tugging with both hands on the door handle.

"The hell. Sam." Dean snagged a fist full of Sam's shirt and tugged him away from the door.

Sam ignored Dean, all twitching fingers and no thumbs. _He had to get out. Now!_

"Sam, wait."

Sam coughed raggedly. There was no waiting. The chattering windup teeth had finally finished grounding his stomach into hamburger - milled red meat pumping its way upward. His throat spasmed as the car slowed, tires bumping along the edge of the road.

Sam had his door flung open before the car rolled to a stop. He spilled out onto the gravel on all fours. A hand groped along the Impala. Sam barely managed to pull himself halfway up, stumbling to the front of the car - locked in her headlights.

The smell of sulfur and rotting meat scorched his throat and put him to his knees. He gagged and gagged, but the turmoil in his stomach refused to come out.

"Awe, dude." A hand locked to his shoulder.

"Mmm." A small whimper filtered out between Sam's gags.

Several cars zoomed past, one rudely honking.

"Bite me, bitch!" Dean yelled after the vehicle was long gone. He crouched beside Sam. "Let it happen, Sammy," he said.

"Nuh." Sam was bathed in sweat, heart beating impossibly fast while gut-busting dry heaves twisted and bent his body.

"Puking's normal, man. You'll feel better afterward."

"C-can't," Sam heaved, but only spittle came out.

"I mean what is puke anyway, Sam?" Dean's hand stroked up and down Sam's back. "Just stomach soup. Taste like food, only warm and mushy."

"Uh," Sam gagged. "Stop."

"You don't need to worry, man. You're puke wont be chunky or some crazy rainbow color. Only thing you had was water and not much of it at that," Dean reminded, a hint of concern in his tone. "Not like you ate tuna fish or breaded goat testicles stuffed with cream cheese."

"Gah, I hate you."

"Sam, you've been holding back for miles. If you don't let it out your mouth, it's only going to come out at the other end of the line. Just think about burping after you've drank an entire can of Beet juice and…"

Before Sam could take a breath or gag again, he bent forward, a rush of liquid coming out his mouth and his nose at the same fucking time.

"Here we go," Dean said, his hands warming the coldness inside of Sam. "Easy, Sam. You're okay. Get it out, kiddo."

Sam couldn't open his eyes; all he could do was try to catch his breath through gritted teeth, shaking to his core.

If it wasn't for Dean holding him up, Sam would be on his belly crawling in puke. When Sam was done, they lingered there a moment. Dean supporting his weight - incapable of moving. Sam barely capable of breathing.

Dean hooked a hand to the back of Sam's neck. "Just take in some air."

Sam did as he was told, finally catching his breath and relaxing a bit.

"Better?" Dean asked worriedly.

"Stand me up." Sam wiped a hand across his mouth. "Find out."

Dean gently brought Sam to his feet, holding him at arms length.

The ground reeled and Sam swayed.

"That was mesmerizing." Dean pressed a palm against Sam's shoulder. "You going to make it?" Sam didn't answer. "Hey?" Dean peered worriedly at him. "How you feel now?"

"Lame," Sam uttered flopping forward against Dean.

"That's because you are lame." Dean held Sam close in an air-crushing sort of hug. "Sh. I got you."

"D'n, I…need…"

"I'm here, Sam," Dean cut him off. "All you need to know right now."

"Nuh," Sam wheezed. "No' tha'. Too tight." He squirmed weakly.

"Oh, sorry." Dean eased Sam away, dropping a strong arm around his waist instead, Dean moved slowly back to the open passenger door and eased Sam inside.

Dean reached down to the floorboards and covered Sam again with his jacket. "How's that feel?"

"Beet juice?" Sam questioned. "You suck."

Dean hovered over Sam, looking him in the eye.

_I would have died to be with you in your hell, little brother. Would have taken your place._

The unspoken words lingered in the night air, shouted out through the darkness as they got back onto the open road.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A small nudge woke Sam immediately. He opened his eyes, realizing he'd conked out and had been drooling on his brother's shoulder. He didn't move, peering out the windshield.

The pink of morning was just coloring the horizon as the Impala pulled up a long, dirt-rutted driveway.

"You can stop drooling and sucking on my shirt now," Dean announced. "We're here." He gave a little shoulder twitch.

"Good. Tastes awful," Sam groaned. "This place is Bobby's?" He raised his head off Dean's shoulder, but the rest of his body refused to move - floppy and formless like a scarecrow that'd lost his straw filling.

"Uh-huh." Dean helped him sit upright.

Sam blinked at the small home before him. He was impressed. A genuine log cabin. Surrounded by tall trees. Four steps led up to a wrap around porch. Complete with lounge chairs and a swing that hung by chains, giving the small but homey cabin a cozy touch.

"Doesn't seem his style."

"Apprently was before he became a hunter. He told me he kept it up all these years because his wife loved it so much."

"Years feel like yesterday." Sam let his head fall back to rest against the seat. "Hell was yesterday."

Most people wouldn't understand. Dean wasn't most people. "I'm telling you flat out, Sam. That doesn't go away." Dean stared at himself in the rearview mirror. "Not for a long time. Maybe not ever. All you have to know is we are back together. We are staying back together. We fight together and…" Dean softened his voice, taking the keys from the ignition and pocketing them. "And the next time either of us tries to take a swan dive or make a deal- the other is going to be hanging on to his shirt tail. You understand?"

"We die together," Sam acknowledged, rocking his head toward Dean, cheek pressed against leather.

"Ert! Wrong." Dean shot Sam his crazy Jack face. "We check ourselves into a psych ward."

Sam suppressed a smile, going back to looking out at the cabin, trying to keep the returning nausea from getting away from him again.

"Hold it there, tiger. I'll come around and get you." Dean exited the car.

Dean opened the passenger door and bent inside. He inched Sam across the seat and helped bring his legs out, making sure his feet were firmly pressed to the ground.

Dean took Sam by the hands, placed one on each of his shoulders and between them, they got Sam out of the car and standing.

Sam was all too aware of his weakness, legs trembling. He hadn't even taken a step and beads of moisture were already dripping trails down the sides of his face.

"What are we doing here instead of the salvage yard anyway?" Sam asked, realizing Dean was the only buffer between him and the hard-packed ground.

"Nobody knows about this place. Not even us." Dean matched Sam's slow shuffling movements, dried leaves crunching under their boots like potato chips. "We're on lockdown, Sam. Like monks."

"You? A monk?" Sam almost laughed, but stopped to maneuver the porch steps.

"Dude, I can obtain."

Step one. Step two. The simple task made Sam wheeze as if he'd just run the gauntlet. "Abstain," Sam panted. "And no. You can't."

"Shut it," Dean scolded. "Besides…" He sat Sam down on the top step of the porch keeping a hand against his chest. "It's only until we can get your strength back. Then it's back to running the gauntlet." Dean looked Sam in the eyes. "Can you stay with me a few more minutes, bro, while I get the door open?"

"Got it." Sam tried to put credit behind his words, drawing shoulders back and attempting to quiet his rapid breathing.

He listened to Dean rummage around behind him. Sounded like he was pulling up floorboards.

The short walk and all the car's jostling wasn't fairing well in his battle against round two of the powerful nausea. The forest spun around him. He concentrated on the tops of the trees ruffling in the light wind. Leaves, he knew to be brightly colored, were shadowy-black, playfully falling and flying all around. The sky was turning brighter. The light band of pink, now yellow. It was weird to see the sky. This hadn't been his world for a long time. All the rotating leaves and fresh air and big, out-of-the-box feeling was just too much. Sam didn't want to think about other-him, hell, water, food, sickness. He didn't want to think about anything. Besides, he could barely keep his eyes open.

"D'n," Sam mumbled, chin dipping to his chest as he closed his eyes and sagged sideways.

"Hey." Dean was there catching Sam against him. "Right here. You ready?"

"To be a monk?" Sam licked his lips.

"To get inside. Get some more sleep." Dean hooked an arm around Sam.

"No," Sam shuddered. "Just need…"

"I'll be the one telling you what you need for awhile, buddy."

"Think so, He-Man." Sam felt heavy. So damn heavy.

"Know so, Beanpole." Somehow, Dean got Sam back on his feet. Everything spun faster, and Dean's voice was little more than a low, faraway hum.

"Sammy, no passing out until I get you inside."

"Too late," Sam let out a long breath just as everything slipped into gray then black.

TBC…..muse pending.


	3. Weird Hot Tub

HIDDEN

Chapter three

AN: Thank you most sincerely for reading and alerting and chancing a ride with a blind driver.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam was back in the gray room - so very cold. Not just a wintry, bitter cold, but the impenetrable bottomless solid kind of cold that left him downright defeated. The cold took away his strength, his hope, his prayer - his everything - and kept him bond to both hells, not just in spirit, but also in heart.

Why was he so cold again? He had remembered well a warm touch. A prayer answered. His blood had started flowing again - a tad of hope had been returned.

Dean?

Hadn't he been with Dean?

In the Impala.

Back on the road.

Together.

Both hells - black and gray - were known for reaping havoc on his mind. Giving him what he'd hoped for, dreamed for - then ripping that hopeful dream away.

Sam wasn't compelled to open his eyes. He wasn't going to play the sick mind-bending game that always led him down a happy, rainbow-colored path searching for his pot of gold. Why? Because he'd always be ripped away from the moment he so desperately needed to cling to, and his pot, if he was lucky enought to find one, was never filled with gold, but with a tar-like substance of all things dead. Hell would once again shove him down face first - grinding Sam's nose in the bullshit of his reality, until he either got sick or passed out.

Still, Sam had been so sure. Completely positive Dean was there by his side, holding him up and comforting him, warming the soul-deep coldness and numbing some of his pain. There'd been a cabin. Hadn't there? Bobby's. It looked inviting and pleasant and he so wished to be there with Dean. That was the last thing he remembered before being dumped back into gray hell.

Sam was semi-awake. Flat on his back. The cot was oddly comfortable today, but that could just be more hellish tricks.

He sighed, feeling the daily sickness creeping up his throat. He tugged his right hand out from under the burlap sacks, which felt falsely soft and cozy. Took a moment to get his twitch fingers working, searching for the wall he knew to be there. Finding the wall, he absently scratched, digging his nails (what nails he had) in as deep as his strength would allow. It was a nervous tick that appeared after black hell and become worse during gray hell. Sam would dig for hours upon hours, trying to escape, but to no avail. Yet his hand still twitched, fingers still wouldn't give up the battle. As if the appendage had a mind all its own. Like that crazy Adam's family show Dean always watched. The one with the hand in the box.

_What was its name? _

_Thing. _

_Right. Thing_.

The thought almost brought a smile to Sam's face. His right hand was a thing - a thing that wouldn't ever stop scratching and twitching. Digging and fighting. Refusing to give up - even when Sam long since had.

He felt alone, fear prickling the back of his neck. Didn't seem to matter which hell, both were horrible - each in its own way. Lucifer's hell was a black canvas of curdling blood-filled screams. Gray hell was the total opposite. Full of ominous silence. In both hells, he'd fought like a lion until he could fight no more. In both hells, he'd pleaded every damn day until his once warm heart was empty, cold, void - broken.

Thing kept picking at the wall, even after Sam felt the skin on the tips of his fingers break open and blood ooze down his arm - at first warm, then growing cold. He didn't grunt in pain or flinch. Was the same, day after day. He was used to it.

"Sam, what the hell?" A loud angry sounding voice yelled.

Sam flinched, eyes flying open wild and darting. He hastily dropped his hand away from the wall he had been scratching at, weakly gripping the covers close to him.

"Easy does it, pal." A face hovered low over him. "Easy."

Sam zeroed in on the voice.

_Dean?_

He gulped and struggled to speak, a bundle of rigid, skeptical nerves.

"Shh." Dean lowered his voice. "Come on." He planted himself in a straight-backed chair that was already scooted close-as-close could be to the bed. "Dude, I don't think Uncle Bobby's going to take kindly to you rewallpapering." Dean pointed at the wall just above Sam's head.

Sam turned slowly, peering at the blood-smeared paper-picked wall. He worked his mouth, but no words would come. Instead, he took a deep breath struggling against his own mind.

He took in the room. Not black. Not gray. No blood curdled screaming. No ominous silence. He was in a real room - small but nice. Cheery, bright blue-flowered wallpaper, white lacey curtains ghosting about a cracked window, and a large, well-polished antique oak dresser that looked like it'd stood sentry in the corner of the room for decades.

This was real. Dean had been real. The ebony black and swirls of hell were gone. He really had been taken away from his prison behind the gray dead-tree walls.

Through the thin lace-white curtains, Sam could see yellow sunlight creeping in and shining down to dot the wooden floorboards, dust particles fluttering around inside the beam of light, like living entities.

"Bobby's place," Dean reminded again.

Sam let out a slow breath. "Sorry." He shook his head, scolding himself as he took in the blood-damaged wall. "Bad habit I guess." He shivered and looked down at his bare chest. "You…you undressed me?"

Dean nodded. "Shirt was toast. Wanted to ditch the pants too, but…"Dean titled his head. "Well, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Sam tried to sit up, a grunt of pain stopping him.

"Sammy." Dean leaned forward, slowly laying a hand on Sam's twitching fingers that still had a grip on the blanket." Just give yourself a minute," he said coolly.

Sam's paper-thin fingers continued to spasm, but he forced himself not to scramble away from Dean's touch. Not that he could anyway; every one of his muscles seemed so useless. His body and soul - hollowed out.

"I'm here. You're here. Understand me, Sam?" Dean soothed.

Nodding his head yes; Sam reached up to push his long, greasy hair out of his eye….

"What'd you do?" Sam anxiously threaded his fingers through his hair, still gummy still dirty, but no longer caveman long. "Dean?" His shaking hand ventured down to tug at his scraggly beard. Sam frowned. Not there. It was like missing a step, and he knee-jerked a little at the surprise of it.

"While you were sleeping," Dean shrugged. "Got bored."

Sam continued to run his hand over his mouth, chin and cheeks. His skin was soft and smooth. Nice.

"Don't worry you were out cold, and I went very slowly," Dean informed. "Didn't leave so much as a razor burn."

Sam's jittery fingers wandered back up to examine his hair.

"Only took a little off the top, Sammy. I know you like it long, man, but any longer and I'd have to go on Craig's List - see if we could find you a hair band to join," Dean laughed.

Sam smiled his agreement, barely holding the edge of consciousness. He wanted to go back to sleep, but other bodily needs were tugging at him. "Kinda hungry," he murmured, in a much-weakened voice.

"I bet. Bath first. You reek."

"Bossy much?"

"Told you, Sam. I'm the captain of this ship for now." Dean threw his shoulders back and puffed out his chest - a show of authority. "Trust me?" Dean raised one brow.

Sam looked deep into his brother's eyes. Saw a fierce, unmovable force of protection. A sort of visible strength and a fight-to-defend attitude that always did consume his big brothers every breath.

"I do," Sam said, completely accepting his dependence on Dean. "I trust you, Dean."

Dean relaxed his shoulders, clapping his hand together and rubbing heartily. "Good. Tubby wubby time." He shoved the chair back away from the bed with gusto and slipped his hands beneath Sam's back, raising him to sitting. Pausing a moment, allowing Sam to rest.

Sam trembled, he still had a skittishness about him. An unsureness that made him want to cower in a corner. Nevertheless, the cold stonewalls Sam was so used to seemed to melt away by the touch of Dean's hands.

Warmth trumped skittishness any day of the week.

"Steady, buddy." Dean kept his hands gentle, his pace almost painfully slow. He eased Sam to the edge of the bed. Lowered his feet to the floor. Pausing in between each action. Inch-by-inch, he got Sam to his feet. Breaking again.

"This could take all day." Sam gasped for air, pressing his thin frame against Dean, the immensity of the simple 'getting out of bed' task - staggering.

"Good thing we have all day, then," Dean countered, burrowing Sam closer.

Warbling bird songs filtered in through the cracked window. The wind ballooning the feminine looking curtains carried the scent of something almost cookie-sweet. Almond or Vanilla, Sam decided. As they made their way across the room, the insoluble cold he had felt for so long began to be replaced by the thick blanket of his brother's love.

Sam was safe.

Sam was warm.

Here he could stop fighting.

Chain 'Thing' inside its stupid black box.

He could stop being afraid.

He could rest.

Hidden.

Though he never shied away from harm's way - being out of harms way - here with Dean, felt almost magical.

"What?" Dean discretely glanced at Sam.

"Nothing." Sam shuffled along, his trembling easing some.

"You going to go all emo on me?"

"No." Sam barely managed the single word.

"Good. Because this whole rubber ducky bath-time thing was cool when you were three, but now…" Dean eyed Sam up and down. "Awkward."

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They stood in the doorway of a small screen enclosed porch surrounded by latticework and woods. Dean with a smug happy smile on his face. Sam, not so much.

"A Jacuzzi, Dean?" Sam stared at the bubbly, two-person hot tub in the center of the room, flush mounted into the cedar wood floor. "Bobby has a Jacuzzi?"

"Hot tub," Dean corrected.

"Same thing." Sam stared at the fizzy water, lights underneath making the bubbles glow aquamarine - warm and inviting.

"It's perfect, Sammy. Get you cleaned up and relaxed all in one shot."

Hot steam rose up to fill the small enclosure, powerful jet streams sending tiny drops splashing up to dot the cedar floor.

"Totally thumbs up, huh, bro," Dean said. "It's even filled with scented bath salts."

Sam took a moment to sniff the air. Sure enough, a sweet, rich, almost woodsy scent floated about the misty atmosphere.

"Sandalwood," he said softly.

"Tub will do all the work. All you have to do is sit there and relax, buddy."

Sam did not make a move or say a word. 'Just sit there and relax.' How hard could that be? At least he didn't have to endure Dean scrubbing behind his ears with a rough as stone motel washcloth the way he used to when they were kids. Still, watching the water spin, round and round, was making him dizzy and he wasn't so sure this was as good a thing as Dean thought.

"Bobby made a special trip up here," Dean continued. "Got this…" He waved a hand in the air. "The whole cabin stocked and ready for our lock….our stay."

"Dean, I'm not…"

"Hot tub's the best thing for sore muscles," Dean rambled on, running right over anything Sam was about to say. "So I've been told, anyway. Two things I want to get off my bucket list, bro. Soaking in a hot tub with Pamela Anderson and driving a limo."

"You mean riding in a limo. No, man, I want to drive the limo." Dean stretched his arms skyward. "Wow…" He twisted and lengthened his body further. "Just wow, I'm sore …" he paused, eyeballing Sam, obviously trying to hard to make him feel comfortable. "Let's say we give it a try, huh?"

Sam cocked his head finding it hard to keep his balance as the water continued to spin.

"It's…it's…it's so…"

"Hugh Hefner. I know." Dean got a far-off spacey look upon his face, staring into the foamy glow of the blue/green water.

"Dean, I don't' know if I'm ready for this." Sam teetered a little.

No response.

"Dean," he swallowed down hard. _Crap, getting sick in a hot tub - so not Hef._

Dean still had not said a word, just stood there staring.

"Dean," Sam called loudly.

"Oh, hey, sorry, Sammy." Dean took slow measured steps, walking Sam carefully over to a padded wicker chair situated near the tub and sat him down. "Let the good times roll, bro." Dean tousled Sam's hair then pulled off his own shirt, undid his belt and stepped out of his jeans, kicking aside his boxers - stark naked.

"Your turn." Dean made a move for Sam's Jeans.

"No," Sam hissed. "Dean, what are you doing?"

"Not hard to follow, dude. Bubbly hot tub. Dirty clothes. Not like we never skinny-dipped together before and I can't leave you alone in there. You might wrinkle," Dean laughed lightly.

Sam stood unsteadily taking small steps backward, away from the chair, away from Dean.

"Don't make this uncomfortable. Because it's not." Dean persisted, taking small steps forward, following Sam until he was pressed up against the screen, and he could back away no further. "Sam, come on. Okay?" Dean stood perfectly still in front of his brother. "I get it. You're trust is wavering. Broken. Anyone's would be after what…" Dean glanced away then back again. "You need help right now. Just a bath."

_Fuck. Sam knew that. Hated knowing that. This wasn't some kinky, hop the fence thing. This was his brother, being his brother thing. The whole touchie-feelie phobia needed to get put aside. _

Sam clenched his fists and turned his head away. "I know," he said staring out into the night. "I just think."

Dean clasped a hand to the back of Sam's neck. "Don't think right now, okay? Just going to hurt. You gotta try to get back at it, Sammy." His fingers kneaded tense muscles.

Sam continued to stare off into the night. Why did everything look so dream-like. A thousand crickets chirped, their song rising as one. Trees swayed in the breeze, a few low hanging branches scratching at the screen enclosure. He wasn't in hell anymore. Why'd he feel so much panic? Panic that made his stomach do loop after loop. Dean had him. The solid blackness of the cage was gone. He no longer needed to grope around four gray walls searching to escape. He didn't have to feel the cold, razor-sharp bite of Lucifer's voice in his head, or the devil's ice-cold fist squeezing Sam's heart until blood foamed on his lips and poured out his mouth. Not just his blood, but the blood of the world. Blood everywhere. Everyone drowning in red. He didn't have to close his eyes and cover his ears, because he feared the earth shattering silence. He didn't have to fight off demons for days, hours, or years on end. Didn't need to wait, cocooned and twisted into a ball of nothingness, amongst a useless pile of broken souls until demons decided to come for him and start the fighting and ripping all over again.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was soft as a whisper.

Sam couldn't answer, he couldn't breath and his knees were about to cave.

What if this was a dream? What if his mind had snapped and he was still in hell -black or gray or rainbow-colored - what'd it matter. Hell was hell. What if Dean really wasn't here and worse - what if he wasn't.

"Sam…what's going on?"

Sam rocked his head back to meet Dean's worried, questioning gaze. "It wasn't me you were with before," Sam uttered. "What if…"

"Shh." Dean pressed a finger to Sam's lips. "We've been over this. It's you. You're okay. I'm right here," Dean said confidently. "You trust me, remember?"

"Yes," Sam said not hesitating.

"And there you have it," Dean deadpanned, green eyes glimmering.

And there it was.

Something in Dean's eyes. Something that reached down to Sam's very core. Something that existed between brothers. Something that words themselves could never come close to explaining. Could never come close to touching. It was that same something reflecting back at him at Stoll, that allowed him to break free of Lucifer's hold on his soul.

When Sam looked at Dean, he knew his place in the world - the two of them shoulder to shoulder - standing together.

Sam's stomach did a few more loops for good measure, and then settled. He waited for an elbow nudge from his brother, something to get his feet to move.

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Can we get you washed up now?"

"You won't…" Sam fidgeted. "You know. Try to…"

"Seriously, Sam? What do you take me for?" Dean questioned, shucking Sam out of his tattered jeans and boxers in one fluent movement. "A creepy old man?"

"You were one once," Sam said lightly.

"Okay, now you're making this uncomfortable." Dean took Sam by the forearm.

"Just leave my ears out of it." Sam shuddered. Not from fear but from being on the edge of exhaustion.

"Easy, just us here." Dean gave his arm a squeeze.

Forcing tears back, Sam let out a huge sigh. "I'm not Pamela."

"You'll do." Dean walked him slowly over to the tub.

Using Dean as a handhold of support, Sam stepped into the swirling water and sat in a corner sinking up to his shoulders. At first, his body had gone entirely stiff. The bubbles prickling his skin, almost painfully. He sighed deeply, quickly relaxing as a floaty feeling came over him. The tight knots inside of knots easing.

"My turn." Dean got in the tub, sitting opposite Sam. "Ohhhhhh, yes." His eyes rolled in obvious way to pleasure-filled way.

"Dean," Sam scolded.

"I'm not. I'm not."

Sam closed his eyes, drifting; only half-conscious of Dean jabbering about Playboy Enterprises and how one man could get so lucky.

For a while Sam drifted, floating on a cloud of white.. Stonewalls and solid blackness melting away. The cold was gone, in its place, warmth. Entwining, sunny warmth. Sam's fists were no longer clenched, muscles no longer stiff and his panting breaths now easily and gently filled his lungs. There came the babbling of water. Splashing of dewdrops. The scent of freshness. A passing hand brushing over his arm.

"Hey."

Sam's eyelids fluttered, but remained shut.

"Sam." A far-off voice called. "Sammy." Closer this time.

"Huh?" Sam's eyes twitched, but still didn't open.

"Click your ruby-red heels three times, dude, it's time to come home."

Sleepily Sam opened his eyes.

"Good thing this isn't a Playboy Mansion party," Dean affectingly teased.

"I…" Sam rubbed his eyes, droplets of water streaking down his face. "I fell asleep?"

Dean smiled.

Sam frowned. "Would you do while I was sleeping this time?"

"Watching you turn into a prune."

Sam raised his hands up out of the water a pins and needles feeling coming to his winkled skin. "Oh," he drunkenly mumbled.

"Bro, what say we get you in the sack."

"Not a Playboy centerfold, Dean," Sam grumbled.

"A guy has needs," Dean defended in a snaky tone.

"Some more than others," Sam snickered.

"You're punch drunk, Sam. What the hell Bobby put in this water," Dean complained under his breath. "Come on out of there, geek." Dean helped Sam out of the tub, snatching a large bath towel and hanging it over Sam's shoulders, before grabbing one of his own and wrapping it around his waist. "How you feel?" Dean asked.

"Good," Sam answered barely hearing Dean through the hazy buzz in his ears. "Water really helped me to…" Out of nowhere, Sam started to see strange black splotches, the room began to twirl around him and he started to fall backward.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Sammy!" Dean was lightning fast, grabbing Sam by both arms, steadying, holding him up.

"Thought you said you were good, jerk." Dean shuffled Sam over toward the chair.

"Guess I changed my mind," Sam slurred, "Bitch."

"Sit here," Dean said, lowering Sam into the chair and crouching down in front of him, dripping hot tub water to the floor. "You feel like you're going to puke?"

"Didn't I puke enough for you on the way here?" Sam panted.

"Sam, you scared the hel…" Dean bit his lip.

"Scared you right out of your pants," Sam laughed.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the glowing, bubbly water. "Weird hot tub." He looked back at Sam. "You're a damned idiot."

"Remember before when this damned idiot said he was kinda hungry?" Sam swallowed. "Now I'm really hungry," he said, head nodding back and forth.

"Yeah, well if you can stay awake long enough… I think you could probably handle a mug of hot chicken broth."

"If you say so, boss."

"I say so."

TBC….pending muse


	4. Rubik Sucks  So Do Grits

HIDDEN

Chapter four

AN: Thank you for all your support and sweetness. You're all making me feel so welcome in my first WIP attempt. Please take the cloning issue in this chapter with a grain of salt…as it is very sci-fi and off the wall. Sunshine, Karen

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Sam was alone again in the horrible darkness, deep below the earth's surface. Doing the only thing he could do. Sit and wait. Wait for the other shoe to drop. But in hell there was no other shoe. Because in hell - things were bad every single day. One shoe. Two. Twelve. Didn't matter. When the demons got bored of teaming up to snack on his limbs, they'd gouge out his eyes then eat his heart and liver, ripping out his throat before he had a chance to scream.

Once in awhile, they'd give Sam's body a break and use another body - usually some 'body' Sam was close to. They'd turn the person into Chunky Soup and force Sam to hunt for their pieces parts, least the person die. Even though Sam knew this to be all a sick game of illusion, he couldn't help but feel the fear and pain and total agony of losing those he loved over and over again.

Lucifer's motto: Fucking with Sam was a hell of a beautiful thing.

Sam's response: Lucifer was a big dick. An infantile maniac who needed to be kicked off the planet all together.

Lucifer's hell was a constant and flourishing battlefield and his cage lay at the bottom level of that field. The barred enclosure was his war-room where strategies were planned and put to the test.

Today's test - once again forging for body parts - Dean's. His brother had somehow broken into the prison to rescue Sam, but a pack of demons had torn his body apart before he could complete the task, flinging Dean parts literally everywhere. It was up to Sam to find all the missing parts and put Dean back together again, before the hourglass ran out of grains of sand - or in hell's case ash.

Sam had done a fair job of tracking and gathering bloody brother organs. Fingers, toes, Dean's heart. He just needed to find one more body part and he'd win the game. The hourglass was near empty when Sam came across a demon hunkered down in one of the cage's four corners. Holding Dean's severed head between its cloven hooves and sucking his brother's gooey brains out of an ear.

Sam battled the demon for possession of his brother's head and had won, but when he demand his reward - Dean whole again - Lucifer laughed in his face and smashed the sands of time.

Shards of glass shot through the darkness of hell. The broken, sharp pieces spun, whirled and sparked like jagged bolts of lightning ricocheting off a giant mountain made of sheet metal. Sam was brought to his knees. Electricity tingled through his blood, glass and bloody brother parts striking his flesh.

Sam gasped and his eyes flicked open.

He quickly realized he wasn't in hell, blackness gone, replaced by gray.

Sam blinked hard trying to focus. "Gawd," he murmured, still shaking from the dream. Black hell always made gray hell look like a summer vacation.

He rubbed at his eyes, realizing he was laying flat on his back - and fairly comfortably at that. His brow creased and he stared upward, expecting to see the dimly lit light bulb, instead was met with a high vaulted ceiling with wooden crossbeams. Everything was open and airy. Not cramped and stuffy.

He glanced around, fearfully at first, until he figured out where he was. Bobby's cabin. The man's living room to be exact. It was a spacious area with overstuffed earthy furniture, a large stone wood burning fireplace, television set and stereo. Sam was lying on the soft sofa with lots of pillows piled up under his head. It was his favorite room and he spent a lot of time here on the couch.

The walls were lined with shelves, loaded down with smart books and video tapes. Matching antler-styled lamps sat on end-tables placed on either side of the couch, old, well-read hunting magazines scattered upon them. On the low set coffee table, situated in front of him, was a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle depicting a lake scene - missing only a piece or two - next to that, a Scrabble game that obviously never got finished.

Sam felt a tinge of sorrow for Bobby. This was obviously a whole other life the man had to give up when he lost his wife. A life he still clung to, obviously.

Sam could hear dishes rattling in the kitchen. Dean whispering softly, probably on his cell. Sam had caught a few bits and pieces of conversation when Dean didnt' know he was listening. None of which made much sense. But right now he couldn't even attempt to ease-drop, the fuzzy buzzing in his head didn't allow the luxery.

_Crap. _He'd fallen asleep, again, while waiting for Dean to finish cooking dinner - if dinner was what he chose to call what Dean fed him these days. Scrambled eggs, chicken soup, runny oatmeal, watered down juice, that thick protein milkshake old people in nursing homes drank to ensure weight gain, and lime Jell-O for desert.

The boss - Dean - said Sam had to take it slow, work his way back up to his girly Tiki island drinks and California rolled sushi. All Sam really wanted was a normal avocado-salad shake.

Sam closed his eyes to rest. Thing absently reaching over to pick at one of the buttons that were sewn into the back of the sofa for decoration purposes.

It'd only been a little over a week they'd been here at the cabin. Still, all Sam seemed to do was sleep and vomit. Just early yesterday he gained a bit of control over his stomach for the first time and managed to keep breakfast and lunch down, dinner was another story.

Thing picked harder, popping the button loose and going to work on the next.

Sam needed answers. Who pulled him from the cage just to shove him into another? And more importantly, why? Who was this imposter that looked so much like him he fooled everyone including his brother? He'd tried to approach Dean several times about the evil twin issue, but was quickly shot down, the subject changed. Sam had let it go, too busy puking to go chasing down answers. But today, he felt a tad stronger. Today he would push the issue and not stop - puke be damned.

Sam heard the creak of a floorboard. Sighing, he rolled to his side trying to hide the twinge of pain.

"Where you hurting?" A low-keyed voice asked.

Sam slowly drew his eyes open.

Dean was standing near the coffee table. Dishrag slung over his shoulder, grease spots staining his dark green tee shirt and what looked like cake flour was stuck all in his hair and clinging to his five o'clock shadow.

"Sam?" Dean pressured him for an answer.

"From the top of my head to the tips of my toes," Sam admitted, stretching his arms a little and collecting his pain, still trying to hide his aches from Dean. "Uh," he grunted unable to do so.

"What'd you do to Bobby's couch?" Dean changed the subject, for which this time Sam was grateful.

"Do?" Sam shifted slightly to see what Dean was talking about. Several buttons were missing. In their place he noted round holes, the white fiber stuffing of the couch poking through. "Crap," Sam mumbled, wringing his hands together nervously.

"Told you to hang on to this." Dean bent down and picked up a blue-red-white-yellow-green and orange titled cube up off the end table. "Work with it. Keep that hand of yours busy doing something besides picking apart Bobby's house," Dean reprimanded. For a moment he stood quiet and twisted the square shape in his hands, mixing the tiles around but failing to match any.

"Been working with it. 'S all I been doing," Sam griped.

"Rubik sucks," Dean said, busily turning the cube clockwise then anticlockwise in a mad rush.

"Simple strategy," Sam begged to differ.

"It's bogus, man. Only thing that will crack this code is a rock or a hammer." He rotated the square colored tiles repeatedly, still getting nowhere fast. "Here," Dean huffed in aggravation tossing the puzzle to Sam who fumbled for the catch. "You'll be lucky to solve the friggin' brain twister one time."

"Four," Sam said, getting a grip on the cube with both hands and sitting up slowly.

"Four what?"

"Cracked the code four times," Sam said proudly, working the cube and already turning one side solid red.

Yeah, whatever, dude. Guess when you're not slaving in a hot kitchen all damn day you would be able to figure out how to solve the bullshit puzzle," Dean grouched pulling the wrinkled dish rag off his shoulder and shaking it out, flour dusting to the cabin floor. "Cracking the code four times in six days, little brother," Dean clicked his tongue. "Not too shabby."

"Today," Sam deadpanned.

"Today?" Dean cocked a curious brow.

"Four times today," Sam smirked. "Fifteen if you count all the others times," Sam muttered tiredly, all his attention directed intently on the cube - a second side turning solid yellow.

"Uh-huh." Dean took two steps forward and snapped the dishtowel forcefully at Sam's shoulder, before tossing it back over his.

Sam ignored the act, continued with his keen concentration of matching colors.

"Okay. Enough," Dean ordered. "Let's eat before you get any geekier." Dean took Sam by the forearm and helped him up.

Rubik's Cube in hand, Sam allowed himself to be led to the kitchen.

Soon as they made it to the doorway, Dean cautiously let go his hold of Sam, pausing only a moment then stepping slowly away.

Sam leaned against the doorjamb, taking in the disaster area.

A pie sat cooling on a wire rack. Mountains of food-crusted dishes were piled up in the sink. There were four burners on the greasy stove. On every burner sat a saucepan. In every saucepan rested a spoon. Ketchup and mustard splattered the walls and dotted the floor. Four beer cans, six cracked eggs, three cookbooks, an assortment of peeled vegetable skins, canisters, empty packages, goggles, soup cans and juice cartons were all unceremoniously strewn around - everything in the kitchen appearing to be covered in a thick layer of cake flour.

"What's with the goggles?" Sam tipped his chin toward the protective eye gear.

"Er…I…just…none of your bees wax," Dean hissed, whipping the dishtowel to the counter and going to the refrigerator, poking his head inside.

"Some Tupperware party you got going on in here," Sam chuckled.

"Shut it and sit." Dean slammed the refrigerator door rattling the appliance and sending a Pizza Hut magnet to the floor, before going to fuss over the stove.

"Okay." Sam shut it and sat, going back to messing with the cube, all the while thinking about other-him.

A few moments later, Dean set a bowl down in front of Sam staring at Rubik's puzzle in disbelief.

Sam smiled up at him, setting the cube to the table - four of the six sides now color-coded.

"You little bitch," Dean pouted.

Sam's smile grew into a laugh as he pointed to himself and mouthed the word 'genius'.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Dean sat across from Sam, digging into his burger with great enthusiasm. Drops of grease dribbled out the sides of the extra large bun staining the tablecloth. Sam cringed, watching Dean chew open-mouthed, all the while keeping his sights glued on the banana cream pie in the center of the table like a jaguar eyeing its next prey.

"Pie's not a flight risk, Dean." Sam hunched over his bowl. "This again?" He picked up his spoon and dug into the white mound of hot grits, taking a small bite. "Guh," he grunted, then swallowed.

"You going to be able to keep that down?" Dean took another chomp out of his large, beefy burger.

"Making an extra effort," Sam said, wincing again as he watched Dean consume more of his burger.

Sam continued to pick at his grits. Wasn't much better than what he got fed in gray hell. He never really could distinguish what they - whoever they were - fed him, but it was always gross and was never enough.

"Why am I still eating Cream of Wheat for dinner, while you get the good stuff?" Sam asked, poking at the thick breakfast cereal.

"You're not ready for the good stuff, Goldie Locks." Dean reached for his beer and took a swig.

"I can handle more than a bowl of hot porridge, Dean." Sam sat up straight, dropping his spoon noisily to the table, hard eyes glaring at Dean.

Dean doggedly kept eating, taking huge bites out of his sandwich as if he didn't hear a word Sam had said.

"I'm ready" Sam claimed sternly, making sure the double meaning behind his words was making its way across the table to Dean's ears.

Dean glanced up and gave Sam the once over - a mix of concrete stubbornness, vehemence anger and unspeakable fear gleaming in his eyes.

Sam cocked his head, slit his eyes staring back hard. His point was defiantly getting across. "I'm ready to know," he said louder.

_Showdown-time._

"No," Dean said equally as loud and hard-eyed. "You're not." He went back to his burger taking even bigger, mannish bites and polishing the sandwich off licking his greasy fingers.

"I hear you whispering on the phone to Bobby. Pieced together a few things. Sounds like you guys are formulating a plan."

"No." Dean shoved his plate away. "No plan."

Sam picked up his spoon and poked around the white, bland mountain of goop again. "Dean, don't you think it's time you told…"

"No," Dean stated calmly, reaching for the pie and pulling the pan close. "Eat your food."

"But don't you think…"

"No." Dean picked up a clean fork and scooped out a huge piece of banana cream, opened his mouth wide as it would go and shoved pie in.

"Isn't it time…"

"Absolutely not time." Dean grabbed a napkin wiping off a glob of cream that stuck to his chin.

"Tell me!" Sam shouted in frustration, throwing his spoon across the room like a toddler having a tantrum.

Dean kept on eating pie.

"Damn it, Dean." Sam shoved away from the table so hard his porridge also went clattering to the floor, adding white grit to the disaster area.

Dean didn't so much as bat an eye or flinch, kept right on stuffing his face.

Sam paced around the table to the beat of his fast pounding heart. "I'm not a four-year-old child, Dean. You need to tell me what's going on." Sam's eyes burned with tears.

Dean glanced up from his food, their eyes met and held. "You look like one," Dean duly informed.

Round and round the table Sam strode, though wobbly, like some sort of crazy musical chair's game. Round and round their eyes never leaving one another. Round and round waiting for the music to stop. Round and round waiting for Dean to say something more.

Perspiration slowly rolled down the side of Sam's face and he started to wheeze out of breath. "Jus' tell," he demanded coming to stand, on edge, before Dean.

For a second Sam thought Dean was about to come clean, but his uncorporative big brother quickly went back to eating instead.

Sam wanted to smash every dish. Wanted to pull every item out of the damn refrigerator and throw the shit through a window, up turn the kitchen table, toss the chairs. He wanted to shove that friggin' cream pie in the boss's face. Sam went back to pacing, hardly having the strength to do that.

"Who's the boss, Sammy?" Dean cut into another piece of pie.

"Dean, I need to know."

"No. No. And no." Dean stuffed his mouth full, and swallowed.

"Why not?"

"Told you. When you're ready."

Sam's whole body began to quiver, arms stiff at his sides and hand's clenched tight. Thing balled even tighter, shaking back and forth as he marched.

"Maybe I'm not ready, Dean," Sam seethed. "But I need to know. I need answers. I'm a hunter. It's me that's being impersonated. It's me who was locked up. It's me who's messed up. I can't move forward. I can't move backward." Sam stopped in his tracks near the sink, his legs deadened, barely able to keep him standing. "Look how it made your skin crawl, how it tricked you. I heard you talking to Bobby the other day. How it stood by and let you get turned. Turned into what, Dean? What'd you turn into? Because in hell you turned into a glob of blood and guts and..." Sam's chest heaved. "And I can't watch your back if I don't know what this thing is. And I can't be sure who I am until… guh." Sam's body stiffened. "I may be here physically, but my zip code is still 666 and I…" The room turned into a muted gray haze.

"Sam, calm down." Dean pushed away from the table.

"Dean, I can't," he gasped in despair, backpedaling until he bumped up against the kitchen counter and his knees gave out. He did a lazy slow slide down, landing on his butt. "I can't." He shook his head.

Dean bit into his lip coming to crouch before Sam. He was quiet. Obviously watching and evaluating.

Sam squirmed under the scrutiny. He wasn't some lab rat. A test subject. His wounds weren't visible. They were more like the wind. Chaotic and unpredictably whirling around inside himself.

An eternity ticked on by and Dean still hadn't moved or said a word.

"Dean…" Sam paused not knowing what else to say, eyes watery, desperately pleading for understanding, for some release.

"Son of a bitch, dude." Dean dropped his head and took a breath. "Look," he spoke slowly. "This is going to sound so comic book, but it's truth. We don't know that much."

He peered back up at Sam. Calm, matter-of-fact, but Sam could see the storm brewing in his brother's eyes.

"Bobby, Cas and a handful of other hunters, friends of Bobby's, are watching the complex where they do the major part of their experiments. They're harvesting. Creating an army of perfectly horrible monsters. Perfectly skilled hunters. Somehow skipping the embryo stage and going straight to the full-grown deal…cells splitting faster than you can blink. Time-saving, huh?" Dean started to ramble faster, seeming to be talking more to himself - unloading a burden he'd carried for some time. "It's classic mad-scientist nuts. Cloning cream-filled Twinkies, I get, but creating their own He-Men? And monsters?" Dean growled. "They collect specimens. Like you. They need their juice…a clone source. A donor so to speak." Dean shivered, his lip curled in revulsion. "They keep said donor locked up in bunkers, small dingy rooms around the country. Human and monster alike. Guess they're not picky. They feed them, water them, give them the barest essentials to keep them alive. A sort of backyard zoo." Dean winced. "In theory, they extract blood cells from the specimens, and somehow those cells regenerate and split and divide at an unbelievable rate. Developing into genetically full-grown twins and enhancing the monster or person's natural abilities tenfold."

Sam frowned, his mind racing to keep up.

"They need to keep their perfect machines running. Need to keep feeding them, replacing DNA cells like fresh batteries. That's why they kept you locked up. Needed to keep extracting your cells. Pump Beefcake-you up with your DNA to keep him functional. We've captured a few clones. Djinn. When they didn't get their recommended daily allowance - didn't take long for their skin to decay right off their bones… almost like a shape shifters." Dean shook his head. "We barely got you and a handful of other humans out of the bunker they were holding you at in one piece. Lost a few of our own trying. They…"

"They?" Sam queried. "Who are they and what did other-me do to you? How'd you figure out he wasn't me…I wasn't him?"

"You said you could handle this so shut up and handle it, cause I can't say this again. I won't," Dean said, eyes steady on Sam in sharp concentration. "They. The Campbell's. As in Samuel. Mom's father. Our grandfather."

Sam's eyes went wide and his jaw dropped, a gasp escaping but he said not a word.

Dean continued in a rush, "I don't know how he's alive. For that matter how you got out of hell. Or how they fucking swapped you out for Terminator-you. We do know Samuel's the head honcho. Him, and a few second-hand cousins and some other hunters… are all into this weird science shit. We're not sure what their intentions are. Bobby thinks it's some sort of plan to take over the world, since the apocalypse failed. Infiltrate then attack blindside us. Maybe Lucifer's behind it. I don't know." Dean took a breath and leveled his gaze further. "All I know…all I'm worried about right now is what's in front of my eyes." Dean lingered on the words, every blue vein standing out tense on his neck.

Sam took in a deep nauseating breath digesting the five-ring circus his brother was directing at him.

"As far as what Terminator-you did to me, Sam…or how I knew he wasn't you. I'm not going into detail. Let's just say I let my emotions fool me once…won't let it happen again. I know a knock-off when I see it, and I'll never doubt my gut instincts again." Dean turned his head away. "They'll be looking for you, Sam. They need your cells. Your DNA to keep Beefcake you running tip-top. Guess you're granddad's favorite. His pet." Dean shrugged. "Their not getting you back, little brother. No way. So we're on lockdown until we can figure out more of what the bastards are up to and how to stop them."

Sam swallowed hard, his hands shaking. What Dean had just told him was so impossible. So hauntingly grim. Bile crept up Sam's throat and he squeezed his eyes shut pressing the sickness back down.

"Hey, you okay?"

For a moment Sam didn't answer. Dean's hand came to his right arm and locked on - steadying.

"What are we going to do?" Sam opened his eyes staring at Dean.

"I'm going to kill them all with my bare hands," Dean roared like a wild animal.

"Not without me you're not," Sam said leaning further against the cabinets feeling weak and groggy.

"You couldn't squash a beer can right now."

"Train me back up to speed." Was Sam's answer.

Dean let out a huge sigh, "Figured you'd say that man. Already started," Dean expressed with great discontent in his tone.

"What? How?" Sam was confused. "Like you said, Dean, I couldn't squash a beer can if I wanted to." He shook his head. "Last time I checked, sleeping and talking to God on the big white porcelain phone is about all the training I can muster. How can I be in training?"

Dean scolded Sam with a stern look.

"Okay. Shutting it and listening." Sam pressed his lips firm.

"The geeky cube," Dean announced. "Builds finger muscles, hand eye coordination, dexterity. It's not much, but it's a start."

Sam tilted his head in awe.

"Going to get you up to fighting weight, Sammy. Get a weapon back in your hand. Just give it time." Dean scooted around to sit up against the cabinets next to Sam staring straight ahead - a disturbed look on his face.

"Can I ask a question now?" Thing picked at a hole in his Jeans.

Dean gave the go-ahead with a 'whatever, have-at' wave of his hand.

"Why aren't you fighting me about staying in lockdown…permanent?"

"Would, "Dean said tried and true. "But I don't want you going off and getting drunk without me around to be your designated driver…. keep tabs on you."

"Huh?"

Dean angrily side-glanced over at Sam. "You're as stubborn ass. Just like dad, kiddo. I tell you not to do something… you do it anyway. Better to get drunk together than apart. Better to fight together then apart. Don't need you getting all buff and going S.W.A.T. on me. Taking off on your own with no backup."

Sam snorted in amusement. "Thought I was The Terminator." He started to rise up off the floor, but Dean's hand to his chest stopped him.

"Bro, stay here a minute with me. I'm beat," Dean said seriously, thumping his head against the cabinets and closing his eyes.

Sam slumped back down joining him. "Thanks, Dean."

"Wont be thanking me when the real training starts," Dean said. "I'm still the boss remember that, bitch. Now shut it."

"Yes, sir. Boss, sir."

TBC…

TBC…


	5. Field of Cars

HIDDEN

Chapter Five.

Previously:

Dean angrily side-glanced over at Sam. "You're a stubborn ass. Just like dad, kiddo. I tell you not to do something… you do it anyway. Better to get drunk together than apart. Better to fight together then apart. Don't need you getting all buff and going S.W.A.T. on me. Taking off on your own with no backup."

Sam snorted in amusement. "Thought I was The Terminator." He started to rise up off the floor, but Dean's hand to his chest stopped him.

"Bro, stay here a minute with me. I'm beat," Dean said seriously, thumping his head against the cabinets and closing his eyes.

Sam slumped back down joining him. "Thanks, Dean."

"Wont be thanking me when the real training starts," Dean said. "I'm still the boss remember that, bitch. Now shut it."

"Yes, sir. Boss, sir."

AN: I am having some serious computer gremlins. So, please, if you don't hear from me...know that is the reason why. Thank you so much for sticking with and all the wonderful support. Means more than I can express with words! Sunshine, Karen

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

The early morning sunlight beamed warm through the kitchen window, yet Sam felt cold. Some days hell - gray and black - seemed a millennia away. Other days, they both slapped him in the face. First one, then the other.

Sam stared out the window, his hands full of soapy suds as he watched the winds energy swirl the dried leaves around the small white-picket fenced backyard.

Today hell seemed close by. Turning his stomach and buckling his knees. If he could be so dorky as to say - he felt a disturbance in the force. Like they were being watched. But there was no one around. Only the elements of wind and earth and harmless four-legged creatures gathering their stash for the upcoming winter.

"What are you doing?" A loud, happy voice boomed from behind.

There was a four second delay before Sam startled badly, spinning away from the sink and the mound of dishes he'd been scrubbing.

Dean stood in the doorway, smiling, wearing nothing but jogging pants.

Sam started to tremble.

Thing clenching tight to the bubbly dishrag.

_Dean. Just Dean. Got to stop being so jittery and on edge. _Sam couldn't help being anything but.

Black hell had been noisy and crowded and horrible. He had to keep an eagle-eye out for every little change. Demons had a tendency to jump out at him, clawing, biting, ripping at random with no way to turn them off or stop them. The pit had left behind a weary guardedness, a jittery fear of every squeak, creak, peep or the slightest movement of the smallest shadow.

Gray hell was completely opposite. Washing away some of that vigilance, adding to Sam's caginess with its dreadful isolation, lonely silence and boredom. With nothing to do, he'd just sit on the dirty cot and grind his teeth or dig at the walls.

This place, the cabin, was safe and peaceful. If only Sam could let himself go long enough to feel it.

Sam had gone from over stimulation to the lack of stimulation and now he was completely off balance, unfocused and unsure of which of his three worlds he should be reacting to.

He'd been trying to get back to himself, working the cube, eating and keeping almost all the food down, but still he couldn't seem to gain any solid ground.

"Sammy?" Dean's smile faded, replaced by his overprotective, frustrated and worried self.

"Nothing," Sam finally said, turning away and closing his eyes still clenching the dishrag.

"Nothing, huh?" Dean stepped into the kitchen.

Sam forced his eyes open, promptly going back to scrubbing a saucepan.

"Bro, I see your O.C.D. has kicked in."

Sam sighed, grateful the attention was taken off of him - for the moment.

Dean went to, and opened a nearby cabinet. "Really, Sam? Lining up all the canned goods like tin soldiers?" Dean snickered loudly. "Crap." His eyes shot wide. "Alphabetized them too? Sleeping with the Enemy are we?" Dean snickered again.

Out of his peripheral vision, Sam watched Dean purposely rearrange the cans so they were no longer in order.

"So," Sam muttered, taking in a few breaths to get his trembling under control. "What's wrong with being organized?" He rinsed the last saucepan, hung the dishrag over the faucet and pulled the plug to drain the dirty water from the sink.

"No one can accuse you of not being that," Dean deadpanned, closing the cabinet and taking in the rest of the now sparkling clean kitchen. "You spend all night cleaning, Hoover?" Dean joked, then as an afterthought said, "Where's my goggles?"

"Only up half the night." Sam shuffled over to the broom-closet and opened the door. Dean's goggles swung on a hook next to the mop. "Figured if Bobby showed up and saw the disaster you've made of his kitchen…" Sam let the threat hang.

Dean puckered his brow. "Dude," he reamed. "Don't touch my stuff." Dean grabbed the safety glasses and tossed them to the kitchen counter.

What do you need goggles for anyway, Dean?" Sam shut the closet door with a thud.

Thing kept a firm hold on the knob, not willing to let go just yet.

"That's for me to know, Sam, and for you not to find out."

Sam huffed then puffed.

"So," Dean said. "What's for breakfast, Julia? Grits."

"Dude." Sam gave Dean an unyielding look. "No more Grits," he hissed. "Not ever."

"Yeah, okay," Dean swiftly agreed. "You never did like them."

"Coffee's made." Sam gestured toward the pot sitting on the kitchen counter. "I already ate."

Dean opened his mouth to say something more, but Sam cut him off before he got a word out.

"Pancakes," Sam informed. "With blueberries," he added.

Thing slipped off the doorknob, giving Sam back some freedom as he went to sit on a bench near the back door.

"Huh." Dean grabbed a clean mug off the dish rack and poured himself a cup of black brew. Taking a sip he turned to lean against the counter. "You were able to keep…"

"I didn't puke, okay, Dean." Sam bent down and pulled on his right tennis shoe.

Dean nodded, blowing the steam off his mug before taking another sip of hot coffee. "What do you think you're doing now?"

"Training." Sam laced up. "Like you said…Rubik sucks." He slipped on the left shoe lacing that one as well.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Dean set his mug down on the counter, bare feet slapping hurriedly across the kitchen floor. He stood in front of Sam, glaring down - hands on hips. "The boss says, hold your horses there, Tonto. What kind of training we talking here, Sam, because you need…"

"Thought I'd start off with something simple," Sam said, "Breaking bricks with my pinky." His tone full of sarcasm.

"Bro, only thing you're capable of breaking right now is a sweat."

"It's a walk, Dean, nothing more."

Dean seemed to consider that, the pucker leaving his brow, in its wake acceptance. "Give me a minute to get dressed." Dean's hands fall away from his hips and he half-turned away.

"Dean," Sam implored, stopping his brother's retreat.

"What?" Dean shot Sam a curious look. "You want me to go walking around the woods half-naked?"

Thing, started up, clenching and unclenching anxiously in Sam's lap. "Can I just have a little time to myself?"

Dean had been doing a great job of shepherding him back to health, but Sam needed more.

Dean's brow pucker was back.

"Please," Sam quickly added.

Dean didn't answer, spying Sam's involuntarily scrunching hand.

Self- monitoring, Sam trapped Thing between his thighs. "I need -" Sam pressed his lips together and turned his head away, eyes landing on a painting of fresh fruit in a wooden bowl. _How could he explain what he needed when he didn't know himself._

Silence filled the room, save for the refrigerator's automatic ice cube maker ejecting frozen cubes into a tray.

When the silence became to uneasy, Sam turned back barely catching the shocked and wounded look on his brother's face. Dean swiftly and without a word continued on his way, grabbing his coffee mug off the counter on his way out of the kitchen, bare feet slapping harder against the tile.

"Where you going?" Sam asked Dean's retreating back.

"Taking a shower," Dean said in a tight voice as he paused in the doorway for half-a-second. "I'll catch up to you later," he informed, some softness bleeding through his obvious hurt.

"Thanks," Sam said in a fragile whisper.

Dean gave one nod, then disappeared into the next room.

Sam stared down at Thing. Still scrunched a ball, still trapped between his thighs. He didn't mean to hurt Dean's feelings. He wasn't the only victim of hell. He knew that. He just needed some time. For what? Sam had no clue. His life was like his damn hand. Out of whack and out of control.

Sam sat listening to the ice cubes, still dumping into the tray. When he heard the bathroom door slam shut, that was when he decided to make his move. He stood, his weakness made known to him when he moved to quickly and the room tilted. Sam's good hand pressed against the wall for assistance and he bowed his head, staring at the floor until the room slowly came back to center.

Thing stayed at his side, balled up, and of no help

Sam's state of being made him think of that crooked old man in the Mini Mart parking lot. _Crap, it had to suck to get old. _About as much as it sucked to feel like a cream-filled Twinkie. Weak and flimsy and debilitated - physical as well as emotional.

Fuck if he was using a cane or watching Doctor Phil.

Sam opened the door and headed out into the wide open.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

He wondered if he'd made a mistake. Everything was so bright. So colorful. So big. Big trees. Big rocks. Big shadows. Big sky. He wasn't used to all this big. All this bright.

Sam's shoulders were hunched.

Thing curled inside his pocket.

Sam walked slowly, moved cautiously, unnerved, and feeling smaller than life. The dirt road was narrow, lined on either side by towering trees. Orange and yellow frost-tipped leaves stirred in the cool Autumn breeze, tossing shadows all around him like a fleet of colossal ships upon a never ending sea.

Nature's soundtrack played loud in his ears. Birds chirped and squirrels chattered. As the sun rose higher, it warmed the leaves, sending melted dewdrops bombarding to the ground. Sam wanted to run, like a solider dodging bullets and bombs, but his legs were weak and sluggish and he was lucky to be walking and not crawling down the path.

A sharp pain bit into his chest. Sam stopped, swaying a little.

Thing came out of hiding, still clenched in a ball, pressing against his sternum.

Sam knew the pain. Knew it all too well. Lucifer's carving knife. Only now, the blade was imaginary. Lucifer was no where in sight. He'd been out of black hell how long now? Why did the demons still follow him? He was a bundle of nerves. How was he going to get back up to par?

More important, how long would it take?

Sam hung his head. "When?" he asked. No one answered.

Sam stood bent in on himself. Taking a few more breaths, the pain in his chest gradually easing.

Thing scurried back to the safety of Sam's jacket pocket, still clenched tight.

Sighing in frustration, Sam kicked an acorn off the dirt path with the toe of his sneaker. Raising his head, he watched as the acorn rolled away and under a bush. Suddenly a metallic flash of light caught his eye through the trees.

One thing Sam always was, was curious. Hell hadn't taken that from him as Sam set off the trail to investigate. He tromped even slower down the unbeaten path. The foliage was thick and the forest here dark. Tiny buzzing insects flew around his eyes and his mouth and his nose.

Thing unclenched, coming out of hiding to smack them away.

Branches struck out at Sam, scrapping against his arms and legs, like man-eating beasts. Sam fought the urge to defend himself. To run. An action he was certain he would fail at.

_Just trees, dude_, he berated himself.

He walked unsteadily around jutting roots and poking rocks; being careful not to touch any of the three leaved, white flowered plants that seemed to over populate the area.

He wasn't aware of how far or how long he'd gone. Just kept going. Urged on by his curiosity or some unknown rebel-like cause to prove he could - when he knew he couldn't.

Sam stumbled out of the dark woods onto a open pasture about the size of a football field. What he saw caused him to straighten up his bent body in surprise.

Cars.

A junkyard of them.

Classics. Rotting away a little more every day.

A half-dozen or more. Of every shape and size and model. Scattered among the hip-tall tangle of dry as hay grass. The scene was almost like a dream or picture postcard of simpler days gone by. Quiet and peaceful. Sunny and serene.

"Huh." Sam made his way closer to investigate.

Some of the cars were so old they were little more than hollowed out shells. Their glory days far behind them. Tires sinking and deteriorating into the ground from sitting idol for so many years. He walked around peering into a few. Most the interiors were ruined by rain and weather, springs popping through the seats and wires protruding out from the dash. Most the bodies were rusted beyond belief. Windows busted out, headlights and doors missing, crumpled fenders, twisted hoods.

One car in particular - though so rusted Sam couldn't tell what color it used to be - was fully intact, glass and all. Even had the keys still plugged into the ignition.

Sam opened the door of the sporty car. The hinges creaked and rust particles flaked to the ground. There was no back seat and he slid inside behind the wheel, being sure to keep one foot outside, firmly planted on the ground in case he had to make a quick getaway - although why, Sam had no clue.

He turned the key. Nothing. Just a dull click. Sam slumped back against the warm seat. He was tired and that was bullshit. He hadn't even walked that far. Or done a damn exercise. He stared out the mud-splattered window, wondering how long the field of car's had been here. Beaten up. Useless. Forgotten. Hidden away from the world. Empty. Alone.

"Mind if I join this tailgate party?"

Sam jolted upright, trembling.

"Dude, this is sweet." Dean tugged several times on the passenger door before it opened and he slid inside, leaving the door open.

"It's a rust bucket. They all are." Sam blew out a long breathy sigh, irritated and embarrassed that he'd gotten caught off guard. _And okay, so Dean had scared the shit out of him too._

"What are you talking about, man?" Dean ran a hand along the grimy dashboard. "This is a '69 Corvette," Dean gave a whistle of appreciation. "Thing's a palace." Dean reached up and jangled the metal handcuffs hanging from the rearview mirror. "Bobby you sly dog," he clucked. "Classic car. Classic smut."

"Dean," Sam moaned, objecting to the uncensored vision that Dean's scandalous tone had sent dancing around in his head.

"What?" Dean leered. "Bet you never used a pair of these for anything sly, Sammy. Ha."

"Real mature," Sam muttered under his breath.

Dean glanced out at the other classics. Eyes large, smile wide, and tongue practically hanging out like one of those sly dog's he'd just accused Bobby of being.

"Don't you start your drooling, Dean." Sam wilted into the seat, thinking how perfectly sly it would be to cuff Dean to the car and leave him for a night. Maybe a year ago he might have pulled the prank, but now. Now he just wasn't himself.

Thing started working on creating a hole in the seat between them - where holes should not be.

Dean's smile faded. "You okay?"

Sam grunted, peering in the side-view mirror and noting the dark blue rings under his eyes and the blank white-screen color of his skin.

Dean grabbed hold of Sam's hand stopping Thing from picking.

"Sammy." Dean leaned over toward him. With his other hand, he took Sam by the chin and forced eye contact.

Sam tried to turn away.

"Boss says, look."

Sam looked. Right at Dean. Looked so hard he swore he had double vision.

"Little brother," Dean let go of Sam's chin, but not his jittery hand, "I know you're hurt and I know you're scared…"

"Not." Sam wiggled uncomfortable with his own self-denial. "Not scared," he uttered.

Thing struggled to pull away from Dean.

"Fine. Whatever," Dean said, not letting Thing go. "But the dark and brooding act has to stop, buddy." Dean drew Sam's twitching hand up and placed his jumpy fingers firmly onto the steering wheel, putting his hand directly over top and holding Sam's firmly there. "You're the one driving, Sam," Dean confirmed without a doubt, fire burning in his eyes. "Not hell. Not Lucifer. Not those freaks that kept you locked away." Dean glanced down at Sam's hand. "Not this creepy, Adam's Family hand thing you've seemed to have developed." Dean pinned Sam with a hard-as-stone stare. "Not even me, Sam. Not even me. "You. You're in the saddle. And I'm here to make sure you stay up. In the saddle. Kick your ass into high gear. All you have to do is let me."

They were quiet for a while. Just sitting and staring at one another. The mid- Autumn breeze entering through the Corvette's open doors. "You buying any of this?" Dean finally spoke up, his voice soft and calm.

"That and a bag of chips." Sam gripped the wheel tight, stopping Thing from twitching.

"So you're cool?" Dean let go of Sam's hand, easing back to his side of the car.

"I'm cool."

"Not as cool as me." Dean ducked his head down between his knees and started digging around under the car's seat. "Yahtzee." He produced a bottle of Old No. Seven.

Sam tilted his head. "Really?"

"Bobby always keeps his cars well stocked." Dean twisted the cap and took a swallow. "Mmm." The corners of his mouth turned up, obviously enjoying the drink.

"With liquor?" Sam reached for the bottle.

Dean pulled the bottle of JD back out of Sam's reach. "Not just liquor, kiddo." He took a swig. "Guy's part squirrel. A friggin' hoarder." Dean bent down low, one hand holding onto the whiskey, the other reaching up under the dashboard. He awkwardly contorted, groping about. "Son of a…" he gurnted painfully, "Jackpot." Dean pulled out a dirty girly magazine and admired the cover. "Oh, this is legendary."

"Big time, hoarder," Sam tsked, swiping the bottle from his distracted brother and taking a quick chug, the liquor burning as it slid down his dusty-dry throat.

Dean scowled at Sam, setting the magazine reverently on the seat between them. "Easy on that stuff, bro." He continued his search under the dash, scrabbling around a few minutes more before finally coming back up with a heavy-duty, black zip-bag.

"What's that?" Sam took a drink. "Body bag for a groundhog?"

"Funny, kid." Dean opened the bag and pulled out an old revolver. "Weapons. Crossbows, knifes, machetes. All kinds. Bobby keeps them wrapped in these special protective bags. Stashed."

"Crap," Sam whispered under his breath.

"Right," Dean replied. "The man probably has a bazooka or nuke stashed in that run down tow- truck over there." Dean tipped his chin out the window.

Sam looked on in awe across the field at the crumpled, two-ton red truck tangled in weeds and pointy thorns. "Huh."

Dean went back to checking the revolver's chamber. "Gun hasn't been cleaned in years, but Bobby keeps them well protected. Shouldn't blow your face off if you fire it." Dean cocked his head at Sam. "'Course could be an improvement if it did. Ha!"

Sam huffed, forcefully, "How come I never knew any of this?" He held the bottle to his lips and gave Dean a harsh stare before taking a drink -silently daring big brother to say a word as he took a long swig.

Dean remained silent.

Sam tipped the bottle futher and drank, this time the burning sensation was gone, replaced by numbness.

"Your stomach's funeral, pal." Dean quirked a sour lip, then said, "Big brother privileges. That's how come I know and you don't."

Sam took a few more swallows wiping his lips with the back of his hand, and trying to stifle a cough.

"Good old, Bobby." Dean fussed with the tape deck, punching buttons.

Sam took another stiff drink, his lips curling as the drink flooded his mouth. "Guh," he swallowed. "Taste like cough syrup. What's in there?" Sam pointed with the bottle toward the tape deck, whiskey sloshing around inside. "Poptarts?"

A tape ejected. Dean pulled the cassette out and read the title. "Charlie Daniels." Dean winced, tossing the tape out the open door. "Bobby's smart, but his taste in music sucks."

"He says the same thing about you," Sam choked down more cough syrup.

"Give me that." Dean swiped the bottle away from Sam's mouth. "Don't care if you did lose two dress sizes, Francis. I'm not carrying your scrawny, drunk ass back to the cabin."

Dean capped the bottle and shoved it along with the wrapped gun, back under the dash. "Ready to head back?" he asked Sam, slipping the girly magazine into an inside jacket pocket.

"You're sick."

"What can I say, Sammy? Marilyn Monroe's the centerfold," Dean explained, "You know how much she'll go for on Ebay?" He stepped out of the car, reverently shutting the door.

Sam got out of the car a bit wobbly on his feet. "Pennies compared to a first edition Tolkien."

"Bitch." Dean stepped around and up beside him, but didn't offer a helping hand.

"Jerk." Sam nodded his thanks and headed back toward the path, knowing Dean was hot on his heels.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

They made their way quietly back to the dirt road under the canopy of trees. Birds chirped and fluttered overhead and the Indian Summer breeze kicked up a bit. Sam tottered off his feet, the little bit of whiskey he'd drank didn't give him a buzz, just made him feel loose and woozy.

"So what do you think?" Dean asked sidestepping around a large tree branch.

"About?"

"Training in the field of cars?"

"Think it's pretty B.A.," Sam burped.

Dean looked over at Sam, surprised. "Excuse you."

"Excuse me," Sam shot back.

"Dude, are you drunk?"

"No," Sam hiccupped. _Okay maybe he was a little buzzed._

"What's B.A. mean?"

"Bad ass."

"Yep. You're drunk." Dean took two steps closer to Sam, brushing shoulders as they walked.

"Buzzed. There's a difference, Dean."

"I'm not carrying you Sasquatch," Dean maintained.

"Don't have to."

Sam kept moving, taking in breath after breath. All the fresh air and exercise making him lightheaded, and his legs started to go all Twister on him. The left leg, red, right leg, green. Okay, so maybe he was a little more than buzzed. He couldn't remember the last time he had a drink and his obvious weight loss made him a light-weight in more ways than one.

Sam continued to struggle along, trying to control his breathing and concentrate on keeping both legs attached to his body. Dean kept side glancing over at him, but said nothing. Sam noticed, however, how his slick brother made sure to keep pace with him, walking suspiciously close enough to snatch hold of Sam incase the wind decided to carry him away.

Sam was thankful Dean had come along. Though he craved some independence, he wasn't sure he could make it back to the cabin on his own, and having Dean by his side always did make the world not so big of a place.

They were nearly back to the cabin when a cold sweat suddenly broke out over Sam's body and his skin prickled. So much so, he glanced up thinking it might have started raining. Between the swaying branches and shimmering leaves, Sam saw nothing but a few puffy white clouds and blue sky. He kept walking, but kept taking quick glances over his shoulder, scanning the road behind them. Nothing. More trees and dirt and rocks. Still, Sam couldn't shake the feeling, that yet again, eyes were on them.

Even after all these years, his father's force-fed training rang clear in his ears and vibrated through his soul.

_This is no kiddie show, kid. No magic wands, trick cards, disappearing cabinets._ _Shadows, creaks and dark corners are not just figments of the imagination, Sam. There are no fun, laugh-in-the-dark times. There are only real dangers. _A_t any given moment. In any given place. At any given time. You need to be prepared. Always on guard. Ready. It's when you least expect something, that you have to watch out for the most. Always expect. Always. And never doubt your instincts… or you could end up dead._

Sam looked over at Dean to see if he'd heard their father's warning, had the same sensation of being watched.

Dean was looking right at him. "We're safe here," he assured with a smile, keping pace effortlessly without so much as a drop of sweat or even slightly out of breath. "It'll be okay, Sam." Dean gave a small nod of promise, breaking eye contact.

Sam nodded back, stepping a little closer to Dean.

Dean slowed their pace, chattering the rest of the way back about how the field of cars would make a great training ground. How they'd start off slow with a few laps and pushups. Work their way up to the good stuff. Target practice and hand- to- hand combat. Sam barely got a word in edge wise, but managed to make the trek back without so much as a hand from Dean.

Sam leaned against the side of the cabin's door.

"You're exhausted," Dean said, digging for the keys in his jacket pocket.

It was true. Sam was sweaty and achy and felt like a pathetic, abandoned kitten sitting helpless inside a flimsy wet cardboard box. "I'm okay," Sam bluffed, trying not to pant and put some strength into his voice.

Dean opened the door and waved Sam inside with a flourish. "Dorkiness before awesomeness."

"Whatever." Sam tripped inside.

"Whoa." Dean snagged the back of Sam's jacket, keeping him from landing directly on his face. "Easy. Easy, okay," Dean ground out. "What was that?"

Sam looked down. "Shoes untied."

"Right." Dean bent down to pull off a shoe. "Sam, Sam, Sam," he muttered. "Every shoe in your collection smell as bad as a decaying Wendigo?" Dean gagged.

Sam kept his gaze downcast.

"Don't sweat it, bro," Dean soothed. "Well, actually, that's the problem. You sweating it," he laughed, tossing Sam's shoes to the side and standing to wrap an arm around Sam's waist. "So, give me a minute to get you in bed before you zonk out on me, okay?"

"Timing you," Sam squinted through bloodshot eyes.

"You do that."

Exactly sixty-seconds later, weary and senses clouded, Sam found himself belly down on his bed. _He was beat._

Even Thing lay limp at his side.

Not hearing Dean leave, Sam peeked open one eye. Dean sat quietly in a bedside chair, staring at him.

"I'm okay," Sam mumbled. "You can go play in the kitchen, dude, just don't make a mess." Sam's eyes fluttered. "Tell me though, Dean, what exactly do you do with the goggles, anyway?"

"You won't ever find out the answer." Dean sat forward and lay a hand to Sam's back, patting softly. "Go to sleep, buddy, you can hardly keep your eyes open."

"If I was stronger, I'd wrestle the answer out of you," Sam said, allowing his head to sink deeper into the pillows, trying to keep his eyes open and on Dean.

Dean laughed, "You eat one too many lead-based paint chips when you were a kid?"

"I always beat you at wrestling," Sam slurred, a comfortable drowsiness flowing through him

"Let you win," Dean heckled, his eyes twinkling. "Couldn't have my nerd brother thinking he sucked at everything."

"Bite me," Sam yawned.

Dean reached behind him, pulling an knitted afghan off the back of the chair. "Go to sleep, buddy." He draped the handmade blanket over Sam. "Dream all about winning that wrestling match." He stood, and started to leave.

"Hey, Dean," Sam called out sleepily.

"Yeah." Dean took a step back toward Sam.

"So…'eh….where you going to be?" Sam asked, a sinking sensation filling the pit of his stomach.

"In the hot tub, Sam, where else?" Dean pulled the girly magazine he'd found in Bobby's car out of his inside jacket pocket. "A monks gotta do, what a monks gotta do." Dean opened the magazine and started leafing through the pages - a happy grin on his face.

"Do you think…" Sam hesitated.

Dean glanced up. "What?"

"Nothing." Sam shivered like it was the middle of winter. "It's nothing. Go." Sam shut his eyes.

Thing grabbed a fist full of blanket.

Sam heard Dean fuss and scuffle around the room. A minute later, he crawled onto the bed and nudged Sam gently with an elbow. "Move over."

Sam did as the boss said. He inched over and curled onto his side, his back pressed against Dean's hip and leg.

"You got one hour of spooning time, Rip." Dean gently pried Sam's fingers away from the blanket and held his hand tight. "Rest easy, Sammy," Dean's voice floated on a breeze.

Sam snuggled and wiggled closer to Dean, drifting. Knowing when he woke up, Dean would still be there.

TBC….

TBC…..


	6. Eye of the Tiger

HIDDEN

Chapter six

Disclaimer: Not the owner.

AN: Thank you for being patient with me and all the lovely alerts and reviews!

Previously:

Thing grabbed a fist full of blanket.

Sam heard Dean fuss and scuffle around the room. A minute later, he crawled onto the bed and nudged Sam gently with an elbow. "Move over."

Sam did as the boss said. He inched over and curled onto his side, his back pressed against Dean's hip and leg.

"You got one hour of spooning time, Rip." Dean gently pried Sam's fingers away from the blanket and held his hand tight. "Rest easy, Sammy," Dean's voice floated on a breeze.

Sam snuggled and wiggled closer to Dean, drifting. Knowing when he woke up, Dean would still be there.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Fluffy balls of gray clouds hung low in the sky. Not that sick, dead tree gray of the room he'd been held prisoner in, but marble-gray. Off-white, mixing, wispy and light. Not depressing or confining, ominous or bleak. Just an open sky over a golden field of high grass and wrecked cars.

Nothing to worry about. Nothing to fear.

Wind rattled through the large trees that surrounded the field, raining leaves down to the ground like colored paper. The sweet smell of a ripened apple orchard carried along by the breeze, and blowing through the tall field of grass.

Dressed in a green tee shirt and loosely fitting black sweats, Sam trudged along, walking beside Dean. This was the tenth day in a row he and Dean had gone walkabout. The day was gray and cool, but Sam felt hot. Not sick hot or sticky hot or overexerted hot, but plain old 'you can't keep babying me like this, Dean,' hot.

He took in a deep breath, the fresh air seeming to wipe away the visions of hell that often wormed their way into his previous night's dreams. Sam licked his lips, to bad the sweet breeze couldn't rid his mouth of the bad aftertaste from Dean's burnt breakfast, or maybe it was the strange toothpaste he'd found and used in Bobby's bathroom.

Dean lazily nudged Sam with his shoulder. "Why so quiet?"

Sam gave a half-sigh. "No reason."

Thing tried to jam inside a pocket, but couldn't find one, now just twiddling at Sam's side.

They were on snail lap two. Just past the tow truck - the one said to have a nuke stashed inside - when Dean fell into his Rocky routine. A habit he'd picked up on the first day of walkabout.

Dean took to using Sam as his personal sand-filled canvassed punching bag. Dancing around Sam and taking pot-shots at him as he circled round and round. At first, Dean's jabs were mild, playful jabs, but with each passing day he'd turned up the volume. Mild to strong to powerful and today - just down right annoying and pounding.

"Knock it off, Dean." Sam pulled his shoulder away at the last minute before Dean could land a punch there.

"Knock what off? Your head?" Dean's eyes shone like green flares as he sang, shoes scuffing through the grass as he continued his fancy footwork.

"Stop it," Sam muttered softly.

"What's the matter, Sammy? Monastery making you grumpy?" Dean floated around him, poking and jabbing.

"Said stop it." Sam blinked in annoyance as Dean plodded around delivering an impressive assortment of combination blows.

"Want to borrow Bobby's Marilyn magazine tonight?" Dean grinned, getting all up in Sam's face.

Sam ground his teeth together.

"Huh, grumpy?" Dean ducked, weaving and jabbing Sam in the left side.

"Stop," Sam said a little louder, rolling his eyes to the gray clouds overhead.

"You need to loosen up, buddy boy." Dean waltzed around, punching Sam's right side. "Get some action." Dean good-naturedly came around, ducking and popping up to give Sam's cheek a playful smack. "Go the distance," Dean cracked as he started humming "Eye of the Tiger, man." Dean started humming the tune.

Jab.

Jab.

Jab.

Poke.

Poke.

Poke.

Sam sneered. "That's it!" he shrieked, frustrated energy coming to a boil. Sam spun on Dean, curtain of brown hair hanging in his eyes but not inhibiting or slowing his moves. Using both hands, Sam thrust out, flat palmed, against Dean's chest. "I said, stop it Dean," Sam yelled shoving hard.

Dean stumbled backward two steps, but was quick on his feet going right back to swinging at his punching bag - Sam. "You move like a bum," he muttered dryly, prancing around in a flurry - still Rocky -style.

Sam huffed, dropping his hands to his sides. Rigid.

"Yo, Adrian," Dean joked, keeping his Rocky theme and sounding very much like Stallone as he flogged Sam in the kidney with too much exuberance.

"Umph," Sam bent over a little and groaned. "I'm serious, man." He straightened back up. "Give it up," he growled, locking a hard stare on Dean's face.

"Rocky never gives up," Dean chirped.

"You're not Rocky."

Thing scrunched up into a ball, knuckles cracking.

"Today I am," Dean defended, hands up near his face, punching at air. "Who you supposed to be?" Dean questioned, breath coming sharp and fast and panting. "Charlie Brown? Lucy?"

Sam came to a stop near the '69 Corvette. He stood mutely. Watching Dean hop around and around and around…and around.

"You got a problem, Sam," Dean sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of a balled-up fist. "'Cause Rocky, he don't like problems."

"Yeah." Sam's eyes downcast. "A big brother problem," he whispered, staring at his shoes.

"What's that, kid? You looking for a fight?" Dean laughed, jogging backward around Sam, showing off more fancy footwork.

Sam raised his gaze to Dean, tone ruffled with annoyance. "Can't keep me hidden here forever, Dean. Walking. Doing a few sit ups, pull ups, barbell curls. Watching my diet. Letting me sleep half the day away. Not doing me any good. Everything's moving too slow."

Thing unclenched at Sam's side, fingers splayed and moving back and forth nervously through the air.

"Step-by-step, Sam. Can't get immediate results. Besides, you're missing one thing."

"Yeah, I know," Sam agreed. "A trainer who doesn't stop my progress in its tracks every time I flinch, clear my throat or..." Sam glanced down at Thing and shook his head.

"Wrong." Dean's humming broke into song, "It's the eye of the tiger, it's the cream of the fight. Risin' up to the challenge of our rival. And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night. And he's watchin' us all," Dean crooked two fingers, pointing toward his eyes, "In the eye of the tiger." Making a fist, he sucker punched Sam in the chest - hard.

Sam grunted, flicking his eyes to meet Dean's. "You're such a jerk."

Thing took a swing at Dean.

"You're such a bitch." Dean ducked down avoiding the hit, coming back up to thump Sam in the left thigh.

"Dean." Sam went completely rigid. "You're pissing me off."

Hands and feet combined, Dean kept up his routine - be-bopping about. "Better to be pissed off then pissed on, little brother. Ha!" Another punch nailed Sam in the right bicep.

"Quit it," Sam demanded.

"Make me." Dean countered with a strong hit to Sam's solar plexus.

Sam winced. "Stop goofing around."

"Not goofing." Dean whacked the back of Sam's head, mussing his hair. "I'm friggin' awesome."

In full defense, Thing made a fist, reached out and nailed Dean in the chest, sending Dean to his ass in the dry grass.

Dean stayed down, looking up at Sam, curiously dazed. "Huh?" he muttered under his breath.

Sam's turn to stalk Dean, pacing around his captured prey like a wild animal imprisoned in a cage. "I said you have to stop it!" Sam shouted, his voice carrying far across the field.

Thing clenched tight, struck out at the air over and over as if a brick wall stood in the way.

"I'm not one of Bobby's banged-up cars," Sam ranted on. "Some messed up freak. You can't keep coddling me like this. It's time to take the training wheels off. I can't get back any balance, any strength like this. You holding on to the back of the bike, not letting me take off on my own, and if you don't let me take off on my own soon I'm going to go crazy for sure. I'm ready for more. I…need…you have to…"

"I know." Dean lowered his gaze, picking at the straw-like grass.

"Dean, you can't keep crippling me like this."

"Said I know." Dean glanced across the pasture.

"Wait. What?" Sam frowned, surprised Dean had argued.

Dean tugged a huge hunk of grass out by the roots - dirt and all. "Damn it, Sam." He threw the clump aside, eye of the tiger glaring up at Sam. "I know, okay?"

Thing fell limp at Sam's side. "So, why are you?" Sam asked. "Crippling me?"

"You know why, Potato Head." Dean got up and dusted off his ass. "Not everyday your dead brother comes back to life and you get a second chance." Eyes of the tiger now placid, Dean quickly turned away, hopping up on the hood of the '69. He scooted to lean back against the glass windshield - roosting there. "Have at." Dean waved a hand out across the field.

Sam looked confused.

"I'm the sensible one right now. We agreed, I'm the boss, remember," Dean explained.

Sam nodded silently.

"Right. And bro, you are messed up, and you know it," Dean softened his tone. "And I'm not going to have you pushing yourself too far. Your emotions are off - everything is off," Dean sighed and was quiet a moment, thinking. "Jog, Sam," he finally instructed. "Two laps. That's it. Two. Tomorrow we'll pick up two more and if you're still on your feet," he sighed again. "We'll do some weapons training." Dean let his head fall back so he was staring at the gray sky. "Little brothers, he growled. "Can't live with them…can't put shaving cream in their tube of toothpaste."

Sam scowled, licking his lips. "You didn't."

"Oh, I did. Ha!' Dean laughed loudly, crossing his arms over his chest, feet at the ankles. "Have at, Sam." Dean glared down the length of his body at Sam, wiggling the tip of his right tennis shoe.

"Dean." Sam stepped up to the car, so close his knees banged against the bumper.

"Just go," Dean muttered, closing his eyes.

Thing balled up, coming down and giving two solid thumps to the rusted hood like a sledge hammer - a thank you.

"Yeah, whatever, man," Dean grouched. "Go, before I start using you for a punching bag again.

Without a word from Sam, jogged off.

"Dude," Dean shouted from behind. "I'm counting."

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Sam's feet hit the ground, his pulse throbbing against the side of his neck. He breathed steadily in and out his open mouth, arms pumping at his sides. Feet following the large circled path they'd mowed during walkabout. Angry-hot gone, replaced now by physical-hot. Sweat trickled down Sam's back and chest, soaking his shirt. It was amazing - the concoction of fresh air, open field, beating heart- Dean letting him off his leash. All triggered something inside of Sam. Something he hadn't felt in a long, long, long time.

Freedom.

Freedom only he had control of. He wasn't Lucifer's cabana boy. Wasn't lost inside himself. He was Sam.

In the center of the field thick grass flowed gently on a breeze and rippled the rainwater that had settled in old, deeply grooved tire tracks. On the horizon the clouds appeared darker, almost purple. A storm was rolling in. Across the way Dean still roosted on the '69's hood. He wasn't watching Sam, seemed preoccupied. From this distance it was hard to tell, but Sam was pretty sure he was on his cell phone.

As Sam ran, gray hell drained and black hell bled away with every drop of his sweat, his shirt soaking up the violence and loneliness. Sam made a mental note to burn the shirt when he was done. Symbolic of burning hell. Could work. He continued to run.

Was a crazy notion, but running always did bring him healing. Some how expending all that pent up energy always had.

Whenever he and Dad or Dean would have a blow out…Sam would slip on his running shoes. He'd run fast. He'd run far. He'd run until he couldn't breath and his legs melted out from under him like sticks of butter.

He'd be exhausted after his run, and his troubles still there- was never a cure all - but it helped. Helped him not to feel so heavy. Made the problems seem smaller. Gave him a renewed look - recharged.

Sam rounded the first corner. Dean was no longer roosting on the hood of the Corvette, but bent down under it, tinkering with the engine, going about his business. Sam wasn't fooled. He could tell every protective instinct inside big brother was on high alert just by the arch of Dean's back and the strain in his arms braced on either side of him.

Picking up his pace, Sam tried to keep his feet light, his pace steady, hide his fast gasping breaths.

"One," Dean counted out, not bothering to lift his head as Sam jogged on by.

_Duh, Dean. I can count._

Sam took on lap two, aware of his trembling legs, heaving chest and waning strength.

He eyed the tree line as he sprinted by. There was that disturbing feeling again. Surely if there was something out there, it would have attacked by now. What'd he expect to see anyway? A one-eyed monster? A roaring, thirteen-feet tall, seven ton T- Rex crashing through the trees?

Sam's left foot caught in a tangle of wires and he stumbled. Squinting his eyes, he saw Dean watching him from the far side of the field, and straightened his stance further.

Sam pushed himself harder. Forced himself onward. The ghost of his father's calloused voice burning in his ears.

_Pocket the pain. Push yourself. Force yourself onward. Keep standing. Deal with the cards you were dealt. _

Sam shivered away the feeling of all-eyes-on-him. They were alone here. Save for the old cars, a handful of chatty birds and a few bees that managed to survive the frosty Fall nights.

Sam's blood pumped hot through his veins. To his right, tucked in between a line of thick bushes he could see a lake. The wind rippling the water, a pair of Mallards floating calmly side by side.

_You're a Winchester. You're my son. Fast on your feet as well as in your mind. You keep from going down._

Sam cocked his head to the wind and listened. The tempo of the leaves in the breeze helped him to concentrate on his breathing and he began to relax. Let his body go. His gate smooth. Drawing energy. Air whooshing from his lungs, then back in again. His mind going white. Blank. No blacker-than-black. No granite-gray. No shades of horror in between.

Sam was in the home stretch, but he didn't want to stop. Dean was still stuffed under the hood of the clunker. Good. When his brother was into a car - he was in his zone - even a pretty girl or cold beer couldn't drag him out from under.

Sam picked up pace, breath coming fast and hard. Drenched in sweat. His intention, to be halfway around the field before Dean noticed he was on lap three.

Right on top of Dean now, and the classic car freak hadn't moved. Sam thought he was home free when his brother slammed the hood shut with a rusty creak and ambled smoothly away, coming to block Sam's path.

"Two," Dean said, hand up and in Sam's face stopping him like a traffic cop looking for a raise.

Sam tried to feign left, step around Dean, but Dean was there in his face again. "You hear me or not?"

"You hear from Bobby?" Sam asked his own question, willing his breathing to not sound so harsh.

Dean didn't say a word.

"Not," Sam answered the previous question, trying once again to sidestep past Dean again, continue his jog.

"Bobby said to stay out of his stash," Dean gave a weak laugh, but his icy green eyes didn't match.

"Obviously never stopped you before." Sam tried to twist away from Dean.

"Sam." Dean stopped Sam, this time with a hand to Sam's arm holding tight. "Come over here." Dean pulled Sam toward the car.

"Dean," Sam complained, his breath audible as he still tried to catch hold of some air.

"Boss says sit." Dean pressed Sam back against the cold metal, keeping a light hold of his forearm. "Listen, damn it," Dean snarled, but behind the angry tone rang the sound of worry and fear.

Sam did as he was told.

Dean leaned against the car next to him, emotions playing across his face like different shaped shadows.

"Dean, what is it?" Sam pleaded.

"Not sure," Dean said, running a hand behind his neck and rubbing there. "Bobby said there's a lot of commotion going on inside the compound."

Sam's jaw clenched.

"I ... we just have to wait for word from him is all. They might be bugging out."

Sam stiffened and stepped away from the car, his legs going liquid. "We should be there." He wobbled, inching back missing the support. "Who knows what's going on." he hung his head low.

Thing clutched at the hood, fingers jittery, thumb running back and forth nervously over metal.

Sam was hyped up on the inside, but his outside body couldn't keep up.

"Bobby and Cas can handle it." Dean lay a hand to Sam's shoulder. "They have backup. He doesn't know what's going on yet. Just wanted to report in. Told us to stay put."

"Dean." Sam looked up. "You really think we should stay put? What about Other-me?"

"Told you. He's buff," Dean deadpanned.

"Dude."

"Sam, just chill. Nothing's happening."

"Yet."

"Okay, yet."

"What about Samuel? The others? We need to figure out what's going on, Dean. What the hell they're planning. You know it's nothing good. From what I can understand these clones are genetically-modified. Made to be one, grand army of unstoppable killers. They need their original source of genetic material to function. They're like machines, but it sounds to me like they still have a spark of independent thinking. Other-Me hooked up with you for a reason."

"Which is?"

"He's a far better hunter with a partner."

Dean was quiet for a long moment, deeply engrossed in thought, the shadows playing across his face intensifying.

"Hey," Sam called out to him, breath still ragged. "You're the boss."

"Bobby's the bigger boss," Dean quickly replied. "He says stay put. We stay put," he said in a determined tone that Sam recognized as his dads.

"Since when…"

"Since now, Sam," Dean gave a half-smile. "Come on, Baby Einstein. Back to the cabin." Dean eased Sam away from the car. "Enough training for today. I'll even spring for pizza, sneak into town and pick it up. Sound good?"

"Sounds better than anything you can cook up."

Thing reached up to clutch Dean's jacket.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" Sam took a few calming breaths.

"Think you can try a little harder at controlling your friend there?" Dean's eyes shifted ever so slightly to the hand twisting his jacket. "Don't want to end up on my ass again just yet," Dean chuckled lightly and this time it showed in his eyes.

Sam glanced at Thing. _Damn hand_. "Maybe we should try handcuffing it?" he suggested.

Thing stilled immediately.

Dean thought about that a second, then said, "Nah. Kinda like the little guy."

"Just don't go all Rocky on me, Dean, and I think you're in the clear."

They headed back toward the cabin, the wind at their backs.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

It was late - the dead of night to be exact.

Sam sat on the kitchen tile, sideways, in front of the refrigerator. A large, square pizza box situated in front of him. The room was dark, and warm, save for the light and cold air pouring out the open refrigerator door. He was starving. Truly hungry. For the first time in a long time. Maybe it was the lousy two laps he'd run. Or the dread filling his gut. Or just because he hadn't had a slice of pizza in who knew how long.

With shaky hands, that still showed every blue vein, Sam flipped open the cardboard lid and he stared inside.

Dean had eaten his half - basic pepperoni, onions and extra cheese, leaving Sam's side completely untouched.

Sam picked up a large slice of pineapple and spinach topped pizza and took a big bite, chewing and closing his eyes - savoring the flavor.

He'd quietly tip-toed like a ghost past Dean; who'd fallen asleep on the living room couch trying to work the damn cube. Sam smiled. Dean would never solve Rubik's puzzle.

Wasn't like him to pillage the fridge at night, or to enjoy cold leftover pizza. Normally he'd have reheated the pizza in the microwave, but Dean looked beat and worried and Sam didn't want to wake his brother. So, he'd just plopped down to eat his missed dinner by the light of the fridge.

Sam huddled over the box, picked up another piece, taking a bite and wondering exactly when he had fallen asleep and how he'd gotten dressed in the fresh gray tee, white long john bottoms and thermal boot socks.

Last he remembered, he was jogging the field of cars. Took a dip in the hot tub while Dean went about his apron chores.

Sam hated how weak he still was. He rubbed at his eyes, still feeling the draw of sleep, and not sure where he'd summoned the energy to crawl out of bed. Man, he still felt like jelly. Still felt so destroyed, from the inside out. Both hell's still so vivid - so haunting and grim. He could still feel the raging storm inside of him, rain pounding down, cold and wet and alone. Scared. Only difference was, Dean was with him now. Standing shoulder to shoulder behind the ships wheel. Together, helping Sam steer through the crashing waves. Damn, he should never have taken that emo poetry class in college.

Turned him into a candy-assed, long-stemmed rose's sap.

And what of all this clone crap.

The floor creaking, brought Sam's head up with a jerk.

"You been out a long time." Dean stood, eyes unfocused, in the doorway. "Missed lunch and dinner." He stepped into the kitchen, barefooted. "See you're making up for it." Dean smiled, coming to sit cross-legged on the opposite side of the pizza box. "Any left?"

"Not from your side." Sam handed Dean a large slice of pineapple/spinach pizza.

Dean cringed. "Gross," he said, taking a bite anyway. "Look, Sam, this is going to play out really simple Sam. We're throwing caution to the wind. Switching things up from now on."

"You mean you want me to do the cooking?" Sam asked taking another huge bite of pizza and reaching into the refrigerator, nabbing two cans of Coke, offering Dean one.

Dean peered over his pizza at Sam. "No. I mean, no more slow and steady." He took the Coke and popped the tab. "No more Rubik's cube." He raised the can to his lips. "No more sleeping in. No more Scrabble games and long walks around the sunny park." He took several large swallows of Coke, followed by a hearty bite of pizza.

"Why the rush all of a sudden?" Sam yawned.

"Dude, you keep at the pace you're going now you'll wind up sprawled out on the couch reading fancy-ass poetry or playing video games. Get all soft and sappy and beer bellied like Bobby. Nope. Not going to let that happen to you, Sammy. Major working out ahead." Dean downed the rest of his Coke, crushed the can with one hand and tossed it behind him into the sink. "Two points." He grinned. "Only way to get you stronger is to give your body the push it needs."

"What are you worried about, Dean?"

"Nothing, man."

"Something's coming our way."

"No."

"Dean," Sam pushed.

"Look, I been talking to Bobby. I didn't want to freak you out. But he called three days ago and has been keeping me updated..."

"Three days, Dean?" Sam's face grew dark with anger.

Dean nodded. "Didn't want to tell you. Wasn't going to, but you won't shut up until I do."

Sam cocked his head.

"But, yeah," Dean fessed up. "Its been three days. The compound and the boatload of steriods...it's empty. Choppers came in and they were loaded up and out before Bobby or anyone could make a move. And…" Dean glanced inside the refrigerator.

Sam raised a questioning brow. "And?"

Dean fiddled with a ketchup bottle. "And I'm worried, okay. Don't know where they went or why. Or even if cookie-cutter you is with them."

"What's Bobby going to do?"

"He's Bobby. He's dealing. So…" Dean glanced back at Sam. "We stick it out here for a bit more. Safe as anywhere here. Keep working on getting you stronger. I know how much you enjoy being a monk, Sammy, but we can't stay here in Bobby paradise forever."

Sam squinted his eyes, they burned harshly in the refrigerator's light. _Damn, he was still so tired._

"Come on, Sam." Dean flicked the pizza box shut. "Much as I'd like to, we can't stay here by the light of the fridge all night long either. Next few days you're so going to wish you were crippled…going to work you hard bro." Dean stood and reached a hand down to Sam. "Crash course."

Thing reached up, taking Dean's.

Sam didn't realize how groggy and sleepy he still was, leaning heavily against his brother. "I can handle training, Dean." Sam wobbled. "You're not the only one who has the Eye of the Tiger, you know."

"I know. Not what bother's me. It's like dad said." Dean held Sam's eyes. "Training's the easy part," he said seriously. "It's what comes after that's hard." Dean sized Sam up and down. "Remember?"

Sam nodded, his eyes growing moist. "Yeah, I remember." He held Thing close to his chest.

They both stood stiff and still. John Winchester's ghostly voice drifting out of the shadow-etched corners.

_Landing hard on your ass during training is nothing compared to landing hard on your ass for real. Got that boy? _

Dean's gaze went to Thing.

Sam's face flushed - uncomfortable-red - as Thing began to squirm against his chest.

"Sam," Dean sighed, turning to shut the appliance door, but paused, flashing Sam an evil grin.

"What?" Sam, puzzled at first, but then quickly caught on. "No," he stated firmly. "Dean." Sam shook his head vigorously. "Don't."

Dean waggled his brow, then went about nosing around inside the appliance. "You're in trouble now, little brother," he chuckled.

"Dean, I said…"

But before Sam could finish, quick-draw Dean came up firing. "Food fight!"

And suddenly whip cream from a can sprayed out. "A direct hit," Dean yelled, happily dancing about.

Sam swiped away the cream from his face slowly with his left hand, digging a little out of his nose with an index finger.

Thing still squirming against his chest.

"You going to cry, bitch," Dean taunted dancing around like Rocky again. "Or you and that creature of yours," he squirted Thing with whip cream," Going to do something about it?"

Sam gave Dean the 'death stare.' "You are so getting it."

The fight broke out. Chaotic and frenzied.

Sam ducked down, nabbed his own weapon out of the fridge and started firing. Squirting yellow mustard all in Dean's hair and in his open mouth.

"Son of a…" Dean spit mustard from his mouth and shoulder rolled. Military-style. Flipping over chairs as he went and ducking behind one - a solider in his fox hole.

Sam scrambled behind his own chair, popping his head up every now and again to get off a shot of French's Golden at Dean.

They took turns army-man crawling to the fridge - raiding its contents. Chocolate syrup. Ketchup. Relish. Cheese Whiz. Jell-O. Squeeze Jelly. Shaken up soda cans. Log Cabin Syrup. Hot sauce. Accenting the darkened kitchen with every condiment known to man or beast, and then some.

It got really bad, when Sam grabbed a carton of eggs. Dean trying to field them like a baseball player - but missing every catch.

"Want to play rough, 'eh." Dean stole a bowl of leftover grits.

Alarmed, Sam hit the deck, grits sailing over his head and slamming into the wall behind him.

The fight ensued, with laughing, and shouting things like: incoming, hit the dirt, fire in the hole, and every man for himself.

By the time they were done, food was stuck and plastered and splashed everywhere. Both men soaked with cuisine, lean and otherwise.

"Truce," Dean raised a dishtowel, waving the rag in the air from behind the safety of his chair. "Agreed?"

Sam was exhausted. Was time to give it up. But he had one more grenade to deploy. He slowly crawled on hands and knees out of hiding, slip-sliding over the sloppy mess toward Dean.

Thing clutching at a very ripe tomato - hidden behind Sam's back.

"Sam? You hearing me?" Dean questioned, peeking out from around the chair. "We agree?"

Thing came out of hiding and…

"Boy!" A third voice infiltrated the room. "You better agree."

Sam froze. "Dean," Sam nervously called out. "You doing your Bobby impersonation again?"

Dean came out of his fox hole. "Not me. You?"

"Nope."

Both boys looked to the kitchen doorway.

A familiar shadowy outline stood, arms crossed over his chest, right foot tapping. "Igits!

"Bobby?" Both boys said together in utter surprise.

"Well it ain't San-tee Clause," Bobby growled, flicking on the overhead light and eyeballing the disaster area. "Balls," he roared, having a good, long look at Sam and Dean. "You." He pointed at Dean - who was the less dirty and less winded of the two. "Clean up this mess."

"But…"

"You heard me. Clean it," Bobby repeated, using his 'or else you're in big trouble' look. "And you…" Bobby pointed at Sam, who still was on all fours, breathless.

Thing loosed its grip on the tomato.

"Drop that there damn apple…"

"Tomato."

"Drop it!" Bobby ordered. "And come with me."

Sam winced, begrudgingly getting to his feet with Dean's help and doing as he was told.

"Where's he going?" Dean straightened, picking egg out of his hair.

"Sam's gettin' his half-asleep, beanpole of an ass cleaned up and back into bed."

"But why"

"Dean. Don't give me any of yer' cock-and-bullshit." Bobby pushed Sam in front of him through the kitchen door, glancing back over his shoulder at Dean. "You started it. You clean it."

"How do you know…"

"Surveillance tape," Bobby stormed out of the room. "Beer belly, my backside," he grumbled irately.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Sam was tucked into bed. Clean, cozy, but unable to sleep. Listening to the flurry of activity and voices coming from downstairs for over an hour.

He peered up when he heard Dean enter the room. "Sorry about the kitchen," he said.

"Go to sleep," Dean growled.

"Why's Bobby here?" Sam persisted.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" Dean countered.

"Tell me."

"Nothing to tell." Dean thumped down on the edge of Sam's bed, gaze fixed on the wall.

"Dean," Sam demanded.

The cone of silence.

"What is it?"

More silence.

Dean sat taut, body compressed.

A growing sense of urgency had Thing pawing at Dean's shirt.

"Hey." Dean took Thing in his hand and laced their fingers. "He just wanted to check up on us. See how we liked the hot tub."

"More than that," Sam said, with certainty.

Dean sighed.

"What is it?" Sam sat up to his elbows.

Dean looked Sam in the eye, squeezed his hand hard. "Bobby just told me now, they found another empty compound about one hundred miles from the one they'd been watching. It's why he came here. Cas airmailed him. They found a dug out - a hole in the ground. Full of clones. Dead. Disposed of like lab rats, and…" Dean hesitated.

"And?" Sam pressed, even in the dark able to see the indented worry lines creasing Dean's forehead.

"And Beefcake-You," Dean huffed. "Wasn't one of them."

Sam physically blanched. "So, do you think…"

"No," Dean quickly cut Sam off. "Nobody knows we're here. Bobby was careful not to be followed."

"But, I've had that feeling, Dean. That feeling of being watched."

"Bro." Dean tucked Thing under the covers. "We're okay. Just get some sleep, Sam," Dean muttered darkly. "Next few days you're going to wish you were crippled."

"How's that?" Sam sleepily said, just now realizing how groggy he was.

"Going to play Rocky for real. Starting tomorrow, you get to be Rocky." Dean ruffled Sam's hair.

"And who you going to be? Adri…"

"Dude, you call me a girl and I'll punch you."

"You won't touch the boy, Dean," A stern voice floated in from the other room.

'Sorry,' Sam mouthed mutely.

"Go to sleep," Dean said, rolling over. "You'll make up for it tomorrow."

"Don't let me sleep in, okay?" Sam mumbled tiredly.

"Okay."

"And no grits for breakfast."

"Check."

"And I can take a shower without you listening at the door."

"How'd you?"

"Doesn't matter. Just don't."

"And I can tie my own shoes and …"

"Sam…having a fantasy here. Go to sleep already."

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Sam fell right to sleep and dreamt of black hell. Chock full of evil. The hiss of flames - harsh and so hot they were . Hand-to-hand combat. Violent animals, pushing, shoving, ripping, tearing - blood splattered and flying through the air.

But this dream was different from all his other dreams. In this dream, Sam was the one who wielded the light saber. Sam was the one who stormed around fire and brimstone with no regard. Lethal. Kicking ass. Was the devils turn to have one hand tied behind his back - a game he liked to play with Sam. Was Sam who got to wrap both his hands - steady and strong and in control - around the neck of the devil and squeeze until the fucking bastards head popped off.

Sam was a Winchester, and Winchesters weren't trifled with - not in hell, not ever.

TBC….


	7. Freakout

HIDDEN

Chapter Seven

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Sam was surprised. No. Sam was stunned, when Dean woke him at six am. Fed him a light breakfast that consisted of a bagel and cream cheese and a glass of orange juice. Then sent him on his way out to the field of cars for a morning run. Without a babysitter.

Sam was reluctant to go at first. Cocking his head toward Bobby and Dean sitting at the kitchen table. Drinking coffee. Quietly pouring over the local newspaper.

Thing refused to stop fiddling with Sam's hoodie strings or open the back door.

_What was up with Dean and Bobby?_

Just the other day, Dean had been so protective. Making Sam feel like a two-year-old child toddling on the edge of disaster. And Bobby. He'd been excessively parental after Sam's and Dean's dazzling late night food fight. Helping Sam wash the ruminants of ketchup, pickles, mustard and Cheese Whiz out of his ears and tuck him safely into bed.

Today, neither one so much as looked Sam's way as he'd tied his running shoes and readied to leave the cabin. Not so much as a word. A do. A don't.

Now, here Sam was - after his small argument with Thing.

Alone. Jogging the field of cars. While his bodyguards sat back at the cabin, like a couple of old men on some sort of wilderness retreat.

It obviously had stormed during the night. The tall grass squishy and wet beneath Sam's feet; surrounding tree trunks dark, and wet with rain. Large, clear drops of water clung to the near bare branches hanging overhead - the few leaves left - quiet and still.

Sam ran. Ran fast. Ran hard. Wind-streaked hair flying back away from his face. Thick, white, vaporous puffs escaping his open mouth like he was a chain smoker. He focused on the set of his feet. Piloting the cold, mud-caked ground. Wasn't easy when your legs were as jumbled as your mind.

"Three," Sam huffed out loud, counting off his lap as he jogged around a deep, watery tire pit.

His throat was dry and he wished Dean had packed him a bottle of water at least. Swallowing past the dryness, he ran on.

The scenery rushing by. Not gray. Not Black. But sepia in tone. Neutral. When would his two hells stop colliding? When would Sam stop being so blind-eyed. Where was the color of the world he used to know?

Sam frowned, suddenly feeling weird. Another field coming to mind. The field he woke up in. Flat on his back. No warmth in his body. Trapped by the rain pouring down. Unable to move. Listening to his heartbeat. His own rugged breaths. Until he was snatched away.

In both hells he'd thought about Dean. Every night and every day and every second in between. Here he was back with his brother and still so messed up. Sam wanted answers. Wanted to be himself again, but somehow all things creepy and skin crawling kept him from that.

His father's voice was never far away. Speaking the hunter's code in his ear.

_Never stop. Never let your emotional pain or fear keep you down._

The field was eerily quiet. He was hot and sweaty under his hoodie, but shivered slightly. The field was wide open. Breezy. Wall-less. So why did Sam feel so caged. Trapped. Closed in.

A flicker off to his left startled Sam into a standstill.

Thing picked at a loose piece of skin along the side of his thumb; while Sam conducted a five sense search - all five senses working at once.

The smell of rancid mud, stagnant water and blood.

The sound of crunching bone.

The sight of a hawk on the ground, under the cover of a thick and thorny bush, tearing open the skin of a rabbit, ripping it guts out and swallowing chunks hole.

Sam felt sick.

Tasted bile in his mouth.

As he observed the hunter and its fallen prey, he thought about his own skin being peeled back. Demons plucking his innards out. Hollowing his belly.

"Crap," Sam breathed in and out trying to control his emotions.

Thing had managed to pull the loose piece of skin off. Blood trickling down the side of the thumb.

Sam wet his lips and swallowed hard. Both hells had bled him dry and he wondered just how many more tee shirts he would burn before he could rid himself of both worlds.

Where was his sixth sense? Telling him everything was okay. Telling him this was not hell.

The hawk peered up from its meal, eyes connecting with Sam's. Ruffling its reddened chest feathers in a display of aggression. The rabbit the large bird had caught gutted, blood spreading out over the ground. The bird screeched. A shrill and piercing and lonely sound. Snatching the limp, dead body and in a flapping of wings, the hawk winged skyward.

"Just a bird, Sam," he murmured, swallowing past the dry-burn of his throat.

Straightening his slumped shoulders, he continued on his path.

Blood drying in the crack of Thing's thumb.

Sam jogged past the Corvette Dean loved so much, trying to distract himself from his own state of mind. He wondered when Bobby had carelessly tossed the classic wayside. Sam tried to picture the car in its prime. Dean was right. She was sweet. Umpteen years ago. Now the car was little more than a tin can.

Sam's body was tired, legs soupy, and his stomach grumbled, but he jogged on. Past the tow truck. Past a rotting metal shell that literally looked like it had rusted into the ground, leaving behind only the car's rear half.

He was drowning in jitteriness. Out of control. Utterly alone.

To be alone. To have some space. Freedom. Right. Wasn't that what he'd originally wanted?

To get out from under big brother's thumb.

Sam shivered - from the inside out.

There was that tug again. A million eyeballs on him. Threatening to jerk him out of his shoes. Stop him in his tracks Everything a jumble of helter-skelter. Was he going insane? He tried to shake off the shudder that ran through him so hard, it nearly brought him to his knees. He dutifully righted himself and kept jogging.

Thing, who'd been pumping hard at Sam's side, tried to scrabble into the front pocket of the hoodie.

"Four," Sam counted out, forcing Thing to stay where he was.

He needed to stay alert Take the edge off his nerves. He started to count. A trick Dean taught him. A game of sorts. Count every breath. Every beat of your heart. Every step of your feet. Control the uncontrollable. Control your fear.

_Trust your instincts, Sammy. See without seeing. Know without thinking. React without holding back._

Sam kept on the path. Brow creased. Eyes forward. His guard up. Responding to his father's advice. Concentrating. Keeping a steady pace. Breathing rhythmically in and out. Eyes following every movement. Sixth sense instinctively kicking in - heightening all his other senses.

Dampness squished inside Sam's shoes.

Through the trees, the nearby lake rippled. Water softly lapping against the muddy bank.

A duck quacked.

A fish jumped.

A stone rolled.

A dying cricket weakly chirped.

Clouds moved slowly along.

A woodpecker drilled its holes.

A crow cawed.

The wind blew. Trees creaked. Twigs snapped.

A chill crept up and down Sam's back. Making the hair on his neck stand on end. His sixth sense.

He wasn't crazy. He was being stalked. Had caught sight of a shadow. Out of his peripheral vision. Was no bear, or coyote. It walked on two legs. Was skillful. A tricky son of a bitch. A true hunter. Keeping down wind. Stealing in and out among the trees and their shadows. Circling. Targeting Sam. Waiting for just that right moment.

Sam had been tailed many times before. In the big city or even on a back country road it would have been so easy for him to lose the tail. Double back. Surprise his stalker, and take the bastard down. But here. Out in the open field. Weakened strength and no weapon to speak of - he was screwed - an easy kill.

Only one thing to do. Turn the tables. The hunted must become the hunter once more. In his mind, Sam plotted his attack. Staying relaxed, he let the enemy creep closer, part of his scheme.

Sam stumbled - also part of his scheme. "Uh," he whimpered.

Slowing his pace, Sam limped along. There was no camouflage in the field of cars - his camouflage becoming his faked injury. Like a mother bird pretends to have a broken wing, luring a predator away from the nest.

Entice the stalker near. Then attack. A tactic Dean had taught him. And taught him well.

Method acting was always Sam's forte. His decoy plan was working. Sam grinned to himself, feeling more than seeing his follower closing in.

He had to wait for just the right time. Sam's eyes scoured the ground. He needed a large stick, a rock, an old whiskey bottle. Anything he could use as a weapon. He thought about the cars, briefly glancing toward them. There were weapons hidden inside. But they were jammed up under dashboards or under seats and securely wrapped. It would take time, and Sam's sixth sense told him that was one of many things he did not have.

Sam went back to scope the grassy path before him.

His stalker was closing in. Sam could hear the faint squish of footsteps only a few feet behind him now.

He slowed down further, spying a large, jagged rock to his left. This was it. His weapon of choice. It worked for cavemen. It could work for Sam.

"Ung," Sam moaned again, and bent downward as if to inspect his sprained ankle.

Someone was breathing softly. Right behind him.

Sam dropped. Snatched the rock, got up to his feet. He spun - compact and light - with power and accuracy and speed and total intuition.

"Ahhhhh!" He gave a loud war cry, raising the rock high over his head - clutching hard - prepared to bash in the head of…

"Whoa!" Dean's arms pin wheeled him backward and he ducked down. "Sam," he hollered, arm raised to cover his face.

"Dean!" Sam spat in utter shock, the rock falling from his hand and landing with a heavy wet thud to the grass. "I almost…" Sam paused, totally out of breath. "Jeeze, Dean." He shook his head, damp hair falling over his eyes.

Thing started to twitch and quiver - presence once again known.

"Who'd you think, man?" Dean relaxed and straightening his frame. "Tall leggy blond named Marilyn?"

Thing smoothed the fallen hair back from Sam's. Lively fingers wiggled, searching for something more to do. Finding nothing, Thing opted to curl into a ball against Sam's chest.

"You suck," Sam berated. "I could have rearranged your entire face."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Dean beamed.

"What are you so happy about?" Sam frowned.

"The way you reached for that rock…Dude, you can totally Cesar Millan your pet like a hand whisperer or some shit. That's good. Damn good." Dean smiled, gazing at Thing, still curled against Sam's chest like an insecure, scolded puppy.

Sam kept quiet, throwing a frustrated, almost ashamed glance down at Thing.

"Bro, I'm not making fun," Dean said softly. "It's just…"

"You don't like it." Sam's gaze met Dean's

"What's not to like, Sammy. It's you. Just needs to be a whole part of you again. You're the boss, little brother. You're the one in control. Understand?"

Sam exhaled noisily. _He understood. More than anyone_.

"Whatever," Sam mumbled, jogging away.

Dean followed, trotting along side. "You know, I thought you really hurt yourself back there." He inspected Sam with awe. "Had me totally fooled. Drew me out of hiding like a pro."

"Was faking."

"Yeah, I got that much." Dean frowned. "You're good, baby brother. Next thing you know you'll have me believing in Sparkling pink unicorns and purple-spotted leprechauns."

Sam's eyes popped wide and he stopped in his tracks. "Dean! Oh. MY. God."

Thing came away from Sam's chest, pointed across the field.

"Look," Sam's voice high-pitched and worried. "Under there."

"What? Where?" Dean automatically going for the gun tucked in his waistband.

"Under there." Sam's tone urgent.

Thing continued to point.

"Under where?" Dean squinted to see.

"Made you say underwear," Sam laughed, trotting off.

Thing waved goodbye over Sam's shoulder.

"Come on!" Dean's hand fell away from the butt of his gun. "What grade are you in?" he shouted after Sam.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

"Dean, I can handle it," Sam insisted.

"Shut up, Sam."

"But…"

"Shut up, Sam," Dean yelled louder.

Sam sighed. This was so different from his freedom of yesterday.

They'd all had a full-sized breakfast and headed out the door together. Bobby guiding he and Dean down a dirt bike trail until they came to a natural obstacle blocking the trail. A large hill. Well, at first glance the barrier looked like a hill, but as Sam continued to stare upward the hill turned into a wall. Strike that. Was practically a mountain.

An outcropping of craggy rock, heavy with vegetation. Running straight up about fifty feet.

This is so not cool," Dean carried on, directing an angry finger up and down the cliff's face.

"So sorry to cramp your style," Bobby grumbled sarcastically. "All the cool mountains are in China," he spat.

"Bobby!" Dean snapped, hand now waving wildly about. "Sam is not climbing up that rock pile."

Bobby peered out from under his ball cap at Dean, eyes fierce and sharp. "Only way for the kid to regain what he lost…is by doing."

"I really get it, Bobby," Dean sighed. "But this?" He stared up the face of the rocky wall. "It's a lot more than I think Sam can handle right now."

"Do I get a vote in this?" Sam butt in.

"No," Bobby and Dean decided together.

Sam blew out a huff of air, "I'm not in such sad shape that I can't climb-"

"Shut up, Sam," Bobby and Dean chimed in again.

Thing who'd been scratching a nervous itch on Sam's left arm, suddenly jammed inside a pocket and clenched into a ball.

"Thought this was America," Sam whispered under his breath, leaning against a broken fence, attention darting back and forth between Bobby and Dean as they continued to debate him.

"It's a molehill, Dean."

"It's a friggin volcano."

"Volcano,' Bobby shrieked in irritation. "Stop exaggerating. Kid's not swimming through a piranha-filled moat so he can storm the palace gates."

Dean looked over at Sam. "He's not ready for a task of this level."

"With what's on the horizon, I'd say he better be able to kick it up and handle this," Bobby volleyed back.

Dean's insecurities suddenly high jacked Sam's confidence. Unable to shut off hell, yet again, images and memories started to float around inside Sam's mind.

"This here is just part of the fun I have in store for you boys today,' Bobby ranted on. After you two climb this wall, I set up an obstacle course in the field. Featuring plenty of hidden traps and targets to shoot at."

Dean frowned. "What do you mean 'you boys'? I thought I'd…"

"You percy, little princess," Bobby bellowed, cutting Dean short. "You going to stand around picking your nose? Sit in the shade sipping lemonade, embroidering daisies, while your brother works his ass off?"

"I just thought…"

"You short on brains?"

Dean gave a slight shrug. "I-I-I…**"**

"Wouldn't want you gettin' no beer belly like me, now would we, boy?" Not waiting for an answer, Bobby roughly shoved a rope into Dean's hands. "There's a wasteland of death and danger out there. Monsters teaming with bad guys. You need to be just as ready as Sam. Don't you ever forget that, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

The sound of softly plodding feet, stopped any further conversation.

"You ladies ready?" Bobby turned to Sam.

Thing had come out of hiding. Having some sort of love fest with Left-hand as they twined together clumsily.

Sam couldn't help but notice how slipper with sweat his hands were. How vertigo was hitting him hard and he hadn't even left the ground. His stomach clenched and his mouth went dry. Looking up the steep wall made him frantic. Lucifer had taunted him with the imagery of such a cliff. Tying his left hand behind his back, and binding his feet together. Lucifer had forced Sam to his belly near the edge of a canyon. One by one those Sam loved appeared, clinging to his right hand. Gripping tight until Sam could no longer hold their weight and they fell from his grasp. Plunged to their deaths. Sam could still hear the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground. Dean. Dad. Jess. Bobby. Once even his dog Bones. He could still smell the splatter of blood. Still see the gruesomely deformed flesh. Still feel the horror and despair and frantic fear. It all was so damn real.

"You okay?" Dean called over to Sam, voice smooth and calm.

No response.

Dean glanced over at Bobby.

"Let me handle him." Bobby slowly approached Sam. "Sam, your brother asked if you were okay?"

"Don't think so," Sam mumbled insecurely, unable to make eye contact and scuffing his foot through the pebbly dirt - ashamed._ Being afraid was for beginners. He'd been hunting almost all his life. He was no beginner._

Thing shook with fear clenching and unclenching, holding Left-hand prisoner.

"Not going to ask you to tell me what's going on in your head, kid," Bobby adjusted his ball cap, the dark shadow over his eyes vanishing. "'Cause I wouldn't know how to help you with that." He reached over and gently cupped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Just going to tell you the one thing I know after livin' this life for so long," he said, his tone patient and kind. "Fear is just a plain, old nasty beast you carry around inside of you. Never goes away. But if you leave it unbridled, fear becomes more of a risk than the actual monster nipping at your keister." Bobby let his hand fall away. "Make sense to you, boy?"

Thing stopped shaking and released the prisoner.

Sam nodded, clapping Bobby on the shoulder. "Thanks, Bobby." He took a deep breath and looked back at his brother who stood quietly watching, eyebrows drawn in tension. "I'm okay, Dean," Sam called over, taking in another deep breath he turned back to Bobby. "Got a rope for me?"

Bobby dropped the gear to the ground. "Have at."

Sam squatted and fought with Thing a moment. The hand skittishly floundering about before unzipping the bag and helping unpack the equipment.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Sam's thoughts raced around hell as he struggled, climbing higher and higher. He glanced down. The ground blending with the brown twisted rock, and there was a funny high-pitched thrill going on inside his ears.

Visions of falling. Plummeting through nothing but darkness and air crowded his mind.

Sam shook his head, desperate to concentrate on the task at hand. Feet and hands fitting into cubbyhole after cubbyhole. Trying his best to keep going. To push the frantic, unsettled lump inside his belly down.

Damn it, he never worried about heights before.

Thing was barely functioning inside the confines of Sam's rock climbing gloves. Slippery with sweat. Tentatively gripping one weird shaped rock and outcropping after another, and working around scratchy twigs and bushes growing out of cracks and crevices.

Sam paused for breath - glanced up - still a ways to go. He shivered and bit back a whimper, fear permeating every fiber. But the fear for himself quickly withered away. His mind turning slideshow - and he was no longer the one doing the falling. Sam knew he was not longer in hell, but still could see and feel bodies rushing past him to their deaths - unable to reach out. Unable to save any of those he cared for and loved the most.

He dug the toe of his right boot in hard against the wall, loose dirt and rock crumbling away.

"Son-of-a…" Below, Dean blew an ear-splitting whistle, "Hey," he yelled up. "Sam."

Sam slowly let his gaze drift down at Dean, only a few yards below him. "What?"

Thing, trapped inside the glove, dry-rubbed at Sam's eyes, trying to get rid of hell.

"We're climbing rocky mountain high, man," Dean reminded. "Not taking the bitch down stone-by-stone." Sarcastic words not matching the gentle tone of Dean's voice. "You okay?"

"Hanging in." Sam gave a weak, amused laugh and went back to climbing.

Thing felt around for the next handhold.

_Just a rock…just a rock…just a rock. _

"You two going to be spending the winter holiday up there? Move your idgit asses!" Bobby's militant voice echoed and bounced off the cliff wall.

The wind screeched past Sam's ears. Whipping dust around large pieces of rock.

Sam grunted, panting heavily as he pulled himself over the lip of the cliff. On hands and knees and head hung low, he stared at the gravelly dirt. The slideshow in his head producing more horrible images. Striking through his mind like bolts of jagged lightning. His head pounded, his ears buzzed louder and his heartbeat crashed against his chest.

Lucifer's voice emerged inside Sam's head, taking him by surprise. "You going to let your brother fall to his death again, Sam, my friend?"

"Nuh," Sam moaned, the slideshow kicking in full on.

Dean was falling from his grasp. Body bouncing off rock like a rubber ball. Head cracking open when he hit bottom. The gathering of demons below waiting like vultures, pouncing like cats on a mouse. Slurping down his brother's brains like an oyster. Lucifer had many games he liked to play, but that one game seemed to be his favorite. And he took great pleasure in torturing Sam. Leaving him powerless and sickened.

Hell was time with no end.

Sam's reality sickly blurred, rooting him back in the cage. "Dean!" he yelped in high-pitched terror, clambering into action upon all fours over the dusty ground toward the ledge.

Dropping down on his belly, Sam peered over the edge. Dean was only inches from the lip of the cliff. Green eyes peering up at him, questioningly. "Dean," Sam called again urgently.

"Dude, chill. I'm coming," Dean grumbled.

"Dean," Sam shrieked again. In zombie-mode he reached down - right handed. Grabbing hold of Dean by the front of his jacket and pulling, pulling, pulling.

"I got it Sam. What's your rush? You're the King of the Mountain," Dean's voice a faded buzzing in Sam's ears as he kept tugging his brother up, up, up.

"You'll fall," Sam blurted, not letting go.

"Sam, what are you saying? I'm not going to fall."

Sam tugged at Dean only using his right hand. Shoulder and arm straining to the point of dislocation.

"Sam, you're only hurting yourself. I don't need your help, damn it," Dean ground out irritably.

Sam heard the words, but they still didn't register. His only thought. _Must save Dean_. "Errrr!" he ground out loudly, heart rate increasing along with his fear.

"Sam! What's going on with you? Let. Me. Go."

"Yes, Sammy, let your brother go," Lucifer roared with laugher, his unseen force gripping Sam tight.

"No!" Sam fortified his efforts, clamping his eyes shut as if that action alone would allow him more strength. No matter what he wouldn't let go! If Dean went, so would he.

"Won't let go. Not again. Not this time." Sam's voice, thread thin, long strands of clumpy hair tousling back-and-forth like wiper blades across his eyes as he struggled to pull Dean up.

"Bro, I am not going to fall!"

Sam clawed at Dean awkwardly, tipping half over the ledge. Small bits of rock and dust crumbling away from the ledge and raining down below.

"Idjit's, no time to be playing around," Bobby's voice floated upward.

Sam sucked in huge gasps of air, voices echoing all around him. But nothing made any sense. Everything was watery and glassy. Cold and dotted black.

Somewhere in the back of Sam's dazed and confused mind, he was aware of Dean scrambling over him. Dragging him away from the cliff. Propping him up against a large bolder, patting the side of his cheek.

"Sam." More cheek patting - on the opposite side. "Look at me."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut tighter, shaking to his very core. Last thing he wanted to do was look. Look at the contorted, bloody mess that used to be Dean.

"Sammy, please!"

Please. The one word Dean rarely used. Sam braced himself. Attempted to breath again.

_Contorted, bloody messes didn't usually speak so politely. And Sam was pretty sure they didn't speak at all. Not even in hell._

"Dean?" he puffed the name out on a whisper.

"If you'd open your eyes you'd find out." Came the challenge.

Sam blinked several times and caught a fleeting glimpse of an overly eager face through the tangle that was his hair.

"Come on, man. You're not fooling me. I know you're somewhere behind that wadded up mop you call hair."

Thing's glove-clad fingers pushed the strands away from Sam's face.

Sam squinted.

"Sammy?"

"Ugh," Sam moaned as chunks of Artic ocean ice flowed through his traumatized body.

Conformation. -Dean. Not bloody. Gripping both Sam's arms with the strength of ten men.

"Roll call, Sam." Dean leaned in close, eye-to-eye. "You with me?"

"What?" Sam's head bobbed, lower lip quivering. "What is this?" He slipped sideways, jacket snagging on the rough rock and would have dropped to the ground if Dean didn't prop him back up.

"You had a freak-out." Dean let go of Sam and sat back on his hunches, frowning sternly.

"A what?"

"A flashback, Sam," Dean redefined.

Sam thought a moment, trying to get his banging heart to beat right.

"Understand?" Dean dipped his head, catching Sam's eye.

Thing was going stir crazy inside the glove, fingers crooking and unable to ball up.

"Can you tell me about it?" Dean took Sam by the hand.

Sam shivered, his left hand struggling to pull the glove off Thing.

"Here." Dean helped, easily undressing Thing, shoving the empty glove into his pocket. "Hold on a second, Sam," he said, undoing the ropes. First on Sam then on himself and leaving the cords coiled on the ground next to them.

Thing curled in on himself, jamming between Sam's bent knees.

"Sam, talk to me." Dean dipped his head, studying Sam's face.

"I-" Sam swallowed hard. "I couldn't hold on to you. He-" Sam glanced away.

"Lucifer?" Dean took Sam by the chin turning him back. "It's okay. Just tell me," Dean said softly.

"Yeah." Sam nodded. "He, 'eh, he I tied one hand behind my back and," Sam faltered, "And my free hand," he glanced down at Thing, "Couldn't hold on to you. You always fell. Everyone always fell."

"Bastard plays hard. I remember." Dean's jaw clenched. "Usual hell rules. Screw with and fuck with the brain," Dean raised his voice.

Sam eyed Dean. He usually didn't slip and talk about hell.

"How'd you do it, Dean? Get through? Make it stop?" The questions came fast, trembling out Sam's lips.

"You know how." Dean gave Sam his game smile, though it was weaker than usual. "Hell's the reason drinking was created."

Sam cringed. He didn't drink like Dean drank. Could an overdose of frappuccino have the same affect as alcohol? Sam highly doubted it. How many more freak-outs would he have? And how much worse would they get? What if he freaked-out when Dean needed him most? This freak-out was more or less harmless. Dean wasn't going to fall.

As if Dean heard the questions swirling in Sam's head he said, "Give yourself some time, Sam. It will get better. Never go away. But it will get bearable." Dean took Sam by the hand removing his other glove and pocketing the accessory. "And if that doesn't work, I'll dig my way down below. Give you-know-who a facelift with a hatchet, then end him for good," Dean said with hatred in his voice.

_If only Dean could do just that. Give Lucifer the death penalty. Not just keep the devil locked in his box. Nice and pretty behind bars. Where he still had certain freedoms. And more than enough power. Power that still could reach out to the world above. But actually make him cease to exist._

Thing closed and unclosed in Sam's lap.

"Come on, we should get back down to Sergeant Kick our ass."

"Old dude with the ball cap and beard." Dean grasped Sam by the twitchy hand and yank him to his feet.

Dean let go of Sam, to clutch at his own shoulder. "Damn, that dude of yours has one hell of a grip."

Sam wobbled unsteadily.

Thing snagging a hold of Dean's jacket, keeping both brothers upright.

."I-I hurt you," Sam said guiltily, eyes brimming.

"I'm fine, Sam." Dean gnashed his teeth together rolling his shoulder. "Just a pulled muscle." He took a step backward.

Thing went limp-wrested at Sam's side.

"I-I'm sorry," Sam spluttered.

"Why should you be?" Dean shook himself whole bodily, letting go his shoulder. "Told you. I'm fine. Let's get going it's a long hike down on foot."

"Let me look at you first." Sam moved in close.

Thing raised, fingers splayed, groping at Dean's shoulder.

"Stop pawing at me." Dean whacked Sam's hand away.

"Not one of your chicks, Dean. I don't paw."

Thing tried again to examine Dean's shoulder.

"Don't touch me," Dean bulked, trying to turn away from the pawing hand.

"Just let me rub it. You got knots upon knots here."

Thing went about massaging the area in question.

"Sam that's sick. Stop." Dean caught the overeager hand. "Lay off, bitch," he directed at Thing, slowly squeezing the helping hand into submission.

Think yanked free and fled, hiding behind Sam's back.

"Dean, be sensible. You're hurt."

"I'm not." Dean maintained.

"Are too." Sam brooded.

"Not." Dean went about gathering up their rope, babying his right arm..

"Are." Sam helped.

"Do I even want to know what is going on here?"

"No," Sam and Dean said, heads turning together to regard Bobby.

"You make an adorable couple." Bobby pushed off the tree he'd been leaning against. "But we still got work to do and being all gooey in each other's arms ain't gettin' any of it done."

"Sam's had enough for one day," Dean said, decidedly, slinging his coiled rope up onto Sam's left shoulder.

"Dean's the one who's had enough." Sam wound his rope and slipped it on top the other, grunting a little at extra weight.

"If anyone's had enough it'd be me," Bobby bellowed. "Now get your asses to the car." He pointed down a narrow well-packed gravel path.

Sam scowled. "How'd you hike up here so fast anyway, Bobby?"

"Didn't. Drove." Bobby turned on the heels of his boots and headed down the trail.

"With what?" Dean fell in behind him.

"'69, Boy," Bobby called over his shoulder. "What'd you think? The old dude with the ball cap hoofed it?" His tone full of annoyance.

"I. 'Er. I," Dean stumbled over his tongue. Cleared his throat, then said, "You know I'm sweet on the car, Bobby, but she's beyond fixing and even if you tried to restore…" Dean clamped his mouth shut as they rounded a large Maple tree and the old-time street rod came into view. "What the."

The Corvette sat all rusty-bucket and broken down, engine humming and clicking away.

"How the…" Dean's jaw dropped.

"Temperamental bitch. Only likes her owner." Bobby opened the passenger door. "Two seater."

"Shot gun," Dean hollered, rushing over to clamber inside.

Stunned he was so slow on the uptake, Sam shook his head.

"Looks like you're hiking, boy," Bobby said, shutting Dean in and going to open the driver side door.

"Nice," Sam sighed, heading down the narrow, pebbly path.

Thing white-knuckled the rope, hefting the cable higher up on Sam's shoulder.

Bobby slid inside behind the wheel and shut the door with a rust-squeaked.

Quickly, he turned to Dean. "He okay?"

"Nothing's going to keep my little brother down." Dean winced, and wiggled to get comfortable in the seat, never taking his eyes off Sam.

Sam trudge tiredly down the tree and rock-lined road. Back bowed by the weight of the ropes - and something more. Hell was a dark and destroying place, but Sam had a fiery flame inside of him. A flame no matter how hard anyone or anything huffed and puffed the burning blaze would never be snuffed out.

"How's your shoulder?"

Dean's gaze drifted over to meet Bobby's. "Temperamental bitch," he said, smiling wryly.

"Like her owner." Bobby put the Corvette into gear and eased slowly down on the gas pedal.

"His owner," Dean protested, going back to watching his brother's back.

"Whatever you say, princess."

No more words were exchanged. The only sound, that of gravel crunching, spitting and popping out from under the '69's tires as they followed Sam back down the one-lane path.

**More to come…..**

**AN: Thank you so much for your patience and time and care with me - through this very new way of writing. **

**/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/**


	8. Snow Swept

HIDDEN

Chapter Eight

AN: Happiest of New Years! And for all the warm, rich and wonderful support you guys send my way for this A.U. W.I.P - and again for your patience - words do the heart no justice. But thank you with all of my heart!

Previously:

Bobby slid inside behind the wheel and shut the door with a rust-squeaked.

Quickly, he turned to Dean. "He okay?"

"Nothing's going to keep my little brother down." Dean winced, and wiggled to get comfortable in the seat, never taking his eyes off Sam.

Sam trudge tiredly down the tree and rock-lined road. Back bowed by the weight of the ropes - and something more. Hell was a dark and destroying place, but Sam had a fiery flame inside of him. A flame no matter how hard anyone or anything huffed and puffed the burning blaze would never be snuffed out.

"How's your shoulder?"

Dean's gaze drifted over to meet Bobby's. "Temperamental bitch," he said, smiling wryly.

"Like her owner." Bobby put the Corvette into gear and eased slowly down on the gas pedal.

"His owner," Dean protested, going back to watching his brother's back.

"Whatever you say, princess."

No more words were exchanged. The only sound, that of gravel crunching, spitting and popping out from under the '69's tires as they followed Sam back down the one-lane path

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

It was cold and getting colder. The field frozen and white. Clumps of tangled weed and grass looking like miniature white-capped Mountains. Ice forming around the cars and gluing them deeper into their sunken ruts on ground.

Cliff drama set aside, mostly, Sam let another arrow wing through the air. The bolt whistled past a paper bull's-eye pinging against the dented metal of an old Ford, then falling to the grassy ground.

"Damn it," Sam growled in frustration, gripping the bow tighter in his left hand.

Shooting cans with the rifle had gone well, but archery had always been Sam's favorite. Even if he did drag his feet when it came to practicing. So why did he feel like such a newbie?

"Dude, you can't shoot the wind," Dean snarked, drawing back his string, releasing an arrow and hitting the bull's-eye dead on.

"Guess your shoulder's okay now."

"Guess so." Dean waggled his brows.

_Dean, always the showoff. _Sam huffed, hopping from one foot to the other - totally agitated and unfocused.

"This isn't dance class, kid," Bobby called out from his perch on the back bumper of the old tow truck. "Relax, Sam. Use your back muscles," he instructed. "Straighten your stance."

Sam concentrated to do as Bobby had instructed. Spreading his legs a little further apart, one foot slightly forward, one foot slightly back - straightening his body, balancing his weight.

"That's it. Good frame, kid," Bobby encouraged from afar.

Thing's hooked fingers quivered erratically as they nocked an arrow and drew the string way back near Sam's cheek.

Dean lowered his bow, retreating a few steps to give Sam more room. Dean swallowed hard, his throat constricting with emotion. Sam was a good archer. Better than him. Seeing his brother struggle so hard at something he knew the kid was aces at - hurt.

Sam closed one eye, setting up the target.

Thing's fingers vibrated harder.

"Trust yourself, Sam. Take control," Dean softly coaxed.

Sam frowned deeply, side glancing at Dean.

"Easy, Sammy. Eyes on the target."

Sam reverted his gaze. Took in a slow, deep breath, and repositioned again. Relaxing his arm, he forced Thing to steady, relocating the tension to his back muscles.

"That's it. You got it," Dean softly whispered from behind.

Sam gave the slightest nod of agreement.

"Now take the shot, bro."

Thing released the string, the arrow taking flight, whistling through the stillness of the field.

Sam held his position, keeping his eyes on the target and following the arrow's path as the bolt hit left to center.

"That's my boy." Dean moved up, slapping Sam with so much gusto on the back Sam bowed forward.

"Missed the bull's eye," Sam muttered, hunching his shoulders. "Damn it." He lowered the bow to hang at his side.

"Not a big deal. Take time to get your groove back, Stella." Dean flashed Sam a cheesy, toothy-white grin.

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Care for a little sparing match? Prove who's the superior shot?" Dean challenged.

Sam smiled, drew his shoulders back and puffed out his chest. Only took one of them going into competitive mode to motivate the other. "What game we going with?" he asked curiously.

"It's getting dark." Dean drew out his Zippo from his hip pocket.

Sam gave a little snort. Digging in his inside jacket pocket and producing a small squeeze bottle of lighter fluid.

"Let's light 'em up," Dean announced happily, drawing a couple arrows from the quiver slung over his shoulder.

"You go North. I'll go South," Sam said, squirting lighter fluid over the shaft and feathers.

"Right," Dean flicked his zippo twice before a flame appeared. " First man to fry up dinner gets to…"

"Put that crap away!" Bobby intervened, hopping off the truck and storming across the frozen grass toward them. "You ding bats wanna burn down another field? Shoot your eye out or something?"

Bobby roughly snatched the lighter from Dean, flipping the lid, doucing the flame. "Brains-in-the-ass. And you…" Bobby whirled, ripping the lighter fluid from Sam. "Ass-for-brains." He glared out from under the lid of his ball cap at both boys - eyes fierce. "Get both your asses back to the cabin."

Sam and Dean obediently started off the field, Bobby stomping right behind and grumbling to himself.

"Brains-in-the-ass?" Dean turned to Sam "What's that mean?"

"Simple translation, shit-for-brains," Sam informed.

"Which one of us?"

"Both of ya," Bobby barked. "Now, shut up and walk for I send your heads looking for them brains."

"Yikes." Dean dropped his eyes to the ground and walked a little faster.

"Crap." Sam did the same.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Training finished for the day, Sam lay on his back in bed. His legs were cramped and his upper back and shoulder area sore; both from pulling on the bow string and pulling on Dean.

The room was dimly lit by a hallucinogenic lava lamp sitting on a corner dresser, its weird shaped wax blobs sending even weirder shadows floating around the room.

Sam stared out the window. Snow was coming. Ice crystals forming on the glass picked up the red hue of the novelty lamp. The pattern, color reminding him once again of black hell. Sam cringed. Lucifer loved to carve. Flesh and bone and heart. Carved them all into cold, soulless clumps of ice. Then took those soulless clumps and whittled them into a pile of fine shavings - a pile of nothingness.

Sam shivered. Hell just kept on drifting in. Was a constant skirmish to keep it out.

Thing fearfully picked and mauled the rumbled comforter Sam was lying on top of.

Sam cast his eyes away from the crystallizing window. Some hunter he was. A damn marshmallow - roasting on a stick. He could feel the fear. Almost child-like. Would he ever be the same again? Could he ever get away from the edge of hell's black hole - gray hell's loneliness and uncertainty? The two followed him around like lost puppies. Turning his mind into a giant box of mismatched puzzle pieces. How could he find himself if he couldn't even find the right shapes to fit back together?

_Detour and divert. _His dad's ghostly voice invaded his thoughts.

Sam shoved both hells to the back of his mind. Concentrating on where he was now.

The cabin was such a down-to-earth place. Way different from the Salvage yard house.

Sam took a breath and put his dad's ghostly advice to use. Tried hard to picture Bobby in his younger days - before he became a hardened hunter. Hippie-type images came to Sam at first. Uncut hair. Tie-dye shirts. Choker chains. Peace signs. Or maybe Bobby was more the fifties type. Pink Cadillac. Blue suede shoes. Grease slicked pompadour. Or better yet, a homey, let me do the dishes honey, bring home a box of candy, unclog the kitchen sink kind of gentleman. The kind of gentle and normal-happy Sam always wanted - and figured Dean wanted too.

Sam's eyes burned and welled to brimming. He slung his left arm over to hide from himself. The thought of what could have, would have, should have been - for all of them - made Sam want to cry. To scream. To run.

"Pssst." Came a sound almost to soft to hear.

Startled, Thing scrambled to wrap himself in a handful of comforter.

Sam peeked out from under his arm, straining to see. He could just barely make out dark, concerned eyes peering in through the crack of the bedroom door.

"Hey, you still awake in there?" Dean asked, quietly.

Sam cleared his throat - for lack of anything to say.

"Go to sleep, Sam," Dean ordered, sounding as gruff as the darkness.

"Not tired," Sam slurred.

"You're beat to hel…" The door creaked and Dean stepped inside. "…you're just beat," he said, now standing at the end of Sam's bed - straight and tall like the solider dad taught him to be.

"Don't tell me what I am, Dean. You don't know what I am."

"You're Sam. My baby brother. And you need to get some sleep."

Thing nonchalantly came out of hiding and gave Dean the finger.

"Dude! Put a leash on your pet."

Sam felt his face flush and he shrunk in on himself.

His arm slipped off his eyes, left hand pinning Thing down to the mattress.

After the little stunt on that mountaintop, Dean had a right to be worried. Angry even. Sam had hurt him. Hell what if he'd dropped him - again? Rope or no rope. An ice-cold lump formed in Sam's throat. Lucifer may still be locked in the cage, but Sam swore he carried a piece of the devil out with him. And being dumped ass-end in gray hell…only hastened matters.

"Sorry," Sam murmured, staring at the wall. Watching Dean's silhouette elongate then shorten then elongating again.

While Sam was distracted, Thing somehow convinced left hand to release its hold.

"Sammy?" Dean sat down next to Sam, the mattress springs squeaking under him. "What is it?" Dean brushed a stray lock off Sam's forehead.

Thing jealously tugged Dean's hand away.

Sam sighed heavily, slowly turning his head to peer up at the inky outline of Dean's face.

"You okay?" Dean's voice was soft.

Sam groaned, "We'll never be rid of it." He noisily swallowed the huge lump in his throat. Feeling the ice-cold rock kerplunk in the pit of his stomach.

Dean glanced away, taking in a deep breath, audibly gulping down his own rock.

"Will we?" Sam pressed.

Dean looked back down into Sam's deeply sunken-in eyes. He was quiet for a long time. Gauging Sam through the dark. Knowing exactly what the kid was asking and not about to lie. "Doesn't matter," Dean finally said, his tone stern with authority.

"Can't you feel it, Dean?" Sam's shocked, and bewildered question filled the darkness. "I can feel it. Hell. It's always there. Always following us. Like a bloodhound catching our scent. Chasing us. Desperate to drag us down. Always close by. Always watching. Infiltrating every decision. Every move. How can you say it doesn't matter, Dean? How can you say that?"

Dean grabbed a handful of Sam's shirt and jerked him half-way to sitting. "Listen here, my brother!" Dean leaned down, sharing Sam's breathing space. "We both fucking got out. Fucking survived. Doesn't matter how. We did." Dean gave Sam a hard shake. "And neither one of us is going to let the other fall back in. Not ever. You understand me, Sam? Not fucking ever! So we wipe those memories from our minds and we move on!" Dean roughly let Sam go.

Weakened by Dean's bull-whip tongue lashing, Sam nearly flopped back to the bed, but braced himself and remained sitting. "Now who's pet needs leashing?"

"Douche," Dean pinged.

"Dickwipe," Sam ponged.

"Both of you shut your holes and go to sleep," Bobby yelled heatedly from across the hall.

Sam sighed, wilting back down into his pillow.

"Soooo…not the Walton's." Dean patted Sam's tummy, stood and crossed the few inches dividing their beds. "Night, brains-in-the-ass." He dumped himself tiredly to the mattress, rolling on his side to face Sam.

"I'm ass-for-brains. You're 'brains-in-the-ass.' Remember?" Sam stared across the dark space between them - Dean stared back.

Thing settled by Sam's side - weak and worn-out.

Dean had the rare ability to make Sam see things in a different shade of gray. His instinct to protect Sam was strong. Dean's will stronger. So strong Sam could almost feel his brother's conviction seeping into him. Taking away the cold once again.

"Good night, Dean."

"Go to sleep, Sam."

Sam was snoring before Dean had a chance to roll over.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Gray clouds blanketed the sky, ever so slowly being pushed out of the way to make room for the incoming purple clouds of a winter storm. The air was cold. Gusts of wind blowing specks of snow through the trees. Bustling white stuff swirled in confusion across the frozen field to pile up in clumps against the shells of the cars.

That didn't seem to bother to two men - one on either end of the field - exchanging boyish laughter, and a football between them.

"Go long, Sammy," Dean shouted, jogging a few steps backward then launching a ball high in the air.

Sam ran through the snow-swept field, eyes to the sky. He smiled catching sight of the ball spiraling just above him. Felt good to do something normal.

Two men and a football.

Sam couldn't remember the last time he and Dean did something as mundane and brotherly. Something they used to do a lot as kids. Mostly outdoors. In weeded fields, trash-covered back parking lots of the trashy motels they stayed in. When dad was gone - they'd go against all rules and play indoors. Toppling over furniture and upending mattresses or racing up and down sleazy hallways. _And why not? It was fun._

Thank you to Bobby - who had opted to spend the day indoors, saying his back was acting up. Sam figured the guy just wanted to give them all a much needed break from training. Probably had heard him and Dean talking last night.

Was good to do something ordinary. And playing football was still a work out, after all. Stretching legs, arms, lungs. Football was a militant game of strategy and aggression and skill. And not to mention, old fashion good medicine for the macho-soul.

Sam zigzagged left, then right, then left again, his arms outstretched.

Thing reached up as the ball tumbled back to earth. Fingertips connecting with pig skin and hugging the ball close to his chest protectively.

Dean was behind him. Charging fast. Huffing hard, a crazy white scarf he'd wrapped around his neck trailing in the wind.

"Better run faster than that, dude," Dean called out, sliding across the hood of a car Dukes of Hazard-style.

Sam poured on the speed, but a strong hand grabbed his shoulder. Tackling Sam, knocking the football loose from his grip.

"Yhatzee!" Dean called out in triumph, pouncing on top the ball

"Think you mean first down, Dean." Sam flipped over, spitting out a mouthful of frozen grass and snowflakes. "Supposed to be touch football, man," he growled, getting to his feet. "And your supposed to be…?"

Thing wrapped and twisted around Dean's scarf.

"Keeps my neck warm. Give it." Dean tugged the scarf from Thing's grasp.

"Okay, fly boy," Sam giggled.

Dean pushed off the ground and came to stand in front of Sam, tossing the football cockily up and down in the air. "That's just it, Sammy. Separating the boys from the men. You get to be the boy." Dean gave a dubious smile.

Sam rolled his eyes. "This is…this is war, Dean," Sam rasped out of breath. "Go again."

"Dude, you're a glutton for punishment." Dean trotted away a few yards and turned. "Let's practice that spiral throw."

Though he was having fun and he was no boy, they'd been playing for an hour and a half straight and Sam was wearing down. It made Sam happy that Dean knew him. Knew him a lot

They tossed the ball back and forth happily for half an hour more.

The wind picked up. The purple clouds roiling above as thick, feathery flakes of snow floated down to coat the ground.

"Last throw, Sam. Looks like we're in for a storm. Fetch, Fido." Dean threw the ball as hard and as far as he could.

Not dignifying Dean with a come back, Sam chased after the football. Okay, so he was fetching - a greyhound after the rabbit - he was having fun. _This was a blast._

Thing nearly had the ball when Sam stumbled over an old Irish Whiskey bottle and went down to the ground. Lanky and sprawled on his belly in the gathering snow, right in front of the corroded, old Ford.

"Sam," Dean called from some distance away over the wind and snow that had quickly picked up, heading into blizzard conditions.

"Fine," Sam called back, reaching for the ball that had rolled just underneath the front bumper. "I'm fine."

Sam started to get up. Made it as far as his knee, when that 'all eyes on him' feeling struck - worse than ever.

Thing held the ball possessively.

A cold mix of fear and paranoia shivered through Sam. This was wrong. There was something out there. _Damn it, there was_.

Sam let the snow freeze his knees to the ground. He used the Ford for cover. Listening. Eyes shifting from one side to the other. A flash of movement drew Sam's attention to the rust-speckled fender right in front of him. He jerked his head up, both shocked and surprised. Almost laughed when he caught the reflection of himself:

Tree trunk arms, bulging chest. He was in excellent physical shape. Looked like he could wrestle Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson - times two - and win.

Sam titled his head and frowned. It wasn't the shapely physic that disturbed Sam to the point of sickness - but the eyes staring into his. Eyes that were all wrong - hard and empty. Haunted. Giving Sam an almost out of body experience. Flashes of images bore through his mind. Painfully so. This man that looked like him - had the soul of a demon. He'd hurt people. Innocent people. Killed them even. Woman. Babies. Dean. He'd nearly killed Dean. Letting a vamp turn his brother. How could he know that? But know that he did.

_This couldn't be another freak out. A nightmare. This felt so real._

_Stop second guessing yourself. Believe in yourself. _John Winchester's ghost came with the wind.

Sam urgently pushed off his knees, rocking to his feet.

Thing let the ball slip from numb fingers, the leather ball rolling away end-over-end.

In a burst of energy, Sam whirled, ready to attack with only his fisted hands. There was nothing there. The images faded, replaced by blinding snow that drove into his face - stinging cold.

Disoriented by white-on-white, the illusion and the deadened silence of snowfall, Sam called out, "Dean."

"Over here," Dean called back, voice muffled. "Hurry your ass up. We need to get out of this crap."

Thing was numb and limp at Sam's side.

Relieved, Dean sounded just fine, Sam headed in the direction of his brother's voice, slow and clumsily - ever wary.

Every snowflake had eyes. Sam was cold and desperate to see his brother. To make sure with his own eyes, Dean was okay. To tell Dean what he thought he'd seen. Crazy or not. He couldn't ignore the feeling of being watched another minute. No way he would let Dean blow this off as a freak-out. Not this time. Dean had to listen. Sam picked up pace. The snow was already near ankle deep.

Sam heard Dean call to him again. Just faintly. But this time Dean's tone wasn't playful. He didn't sound just fine. He sounded in distress.

"Dean." Sam quickly veered left, hoping that was the direction he needed to go, when a burning pain cut into his upper left shoulder blade. "Guh," Sam grunted.

Thing reached back to inspect.

"Ugh," Sam grunted again, a similar sharp pain now pulsing in his right calf. "Mmmm." And yet another, this time just below his rib cage, straight through his jacket. "Nuh," Sam's body went rigid. He turned round and round in a fast circle, on Slinky-like legs. He couldn't see a thing. Blinded by the howling blizzard. Disoriented by the unknown pain. "Who's there? What do you want?" He stumbled and slipped. "D'n," he called out a warning, barely able to hold onto consciousness as he tipped sideways and took a tumble - face smothered in snow.

TBC -

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/


	9. Jackie Chan ninja bastard

HIDDEN

Chapter nine

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

"Uh," Sam groaned.

Thing - numb and raw with cold - sluggishly crept up toward Sam's face, trying to clear away the snow.

Sam tried to concentrate. What was the last thing he had been doing? Playing football. No. He'd been hit. More than once. By what? He had no clue. Felt like knives. Tearing through his clothing. Whatever it was, brought him crashing down like a darted moose - a darted emaciated moose, but a moose just the same. The burning pain still seared his shoulder blade, upper left thigh, and under his rib cage. He didn't know how long he'd been out. But judging by the fact he could still feel his toes - not long.

Sam's eyes opened to a small sliver, but all he saw was the swirl of drifting white.

Thing was still sluggishly working to clear away the snow from Sam's mouth and nose.

Sam listened good and hard, but all he heard was the wind whipping through the trees. Whipping through the field. He'd seen something. No. Not something. Himself. Only not.

_Other-you. He's buff, Sam. They found a dug out - a hole in the ground. Full of clones. Dead. Disposed of like lab rats, and Beefcake you wasn't one of them. I'm worried, okay. Don't know where they went or why. Or even if cookie-cutter you is with them." _Dean's voice niggled in his ear, then morphed into his own previously spoken words:

_They need their original source of genetic material to function, Dean. They're like machines, but it sounds to me like they still have a spark of independent thinking. Other-Me hooked up with you for a reason." _

_"Which is?"_

_"He's a far better hunter with a partner."_

"Ah-gaw," Sam struggled to move. "Stupid," he slurred. _Okay, so he was wrong about Other-him being a far better hunter with a partner. His big twin had done just fine taking Sam down - all on his own._

Or at least Sam figured he was all on his own. Maybe he was wrong about that too. Right now all Sam knew was he had to move. Get to Dean.

Thing was not much help. Long fingers frozen and gnarled like an old mans.

Sam couldn't stop shivering. He lifted his head - barely. Doing a glance and search. It was getting dark. Panic set in. He wasn't imagining. He knew that more than ever now.

_Where was Dean? Where was his twin? Probably ripping Dean apart. Starting with his brother's tongue._

Sam struggled to keep his eyes open. To get to his feet.

Thing gave up tunneling and reached behind, groping for the Ford's fender, trying to help.

"Nuh." Sam folded back down to his belly like one of those cheap metal chairs used during High School Assemblies.

He tried to push up again, but a hand to his back pressed him back. "Stay down. You're bleeding."

Sam startled, two crossbows landing with a muffled thump in the snow right next to him

"Dean," Sam struggled again to get up to one knee then his feet. "Where? Where'd you get the weapons?"

"Tow truck was all out of nukes. Grabbed the next best thing."

Thing passed over Sam's face, clearing his vision of snow and dizziness.

"Did you see me-" Sam shook his head. "I mean, him? He looked…looked…guh…" Sam dropped back to the ground on his belly, his injured leg like an elastic band unable to bear his weight. "Dean, you gotta watch out."

"Easy. Take it easy," Dean hushed. "Let me check you out."

Sam thrashed.

"I said don't move, man," Dean scolded harshly. "Hard enough to see without you trying to make snow angels."

Sam swallowed repeatedly, forcing his freezing, pain-filled body to still. "Dean."

"Don't worry, Sam. I saw you…him...Beefcake, Sam," Dean stammered, running a hand over Sam's head, neck, and stopping abruptly at his shoulder blade " Friggin' Jackie Chan ninja bastard."

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked, confused, head angling as he squinted up at Dean through the heavily falling snow.

"He used four pointed stars." Dean pressed Sam's head back down. "Classic ninja weapon. You took two. One in your shoulder and one in your leg." Dean leaned over Sam's back, fingers examining the star dug into his shoulder.

"Not..." Sam rolled to his side, body convulsing with pain-filled tremors.

"Dude, don't you ever listen? I said stay…"

"...Not the only two places he got me." Sam held back the urge to vomit, his chest felt on fire. "Where's he now?"

"Winged him in the arm with an arrow. He took off to lick his wound."

Thing moved, searching for the burning pain in Sam's chest.

"Dude!" Dean grabbed hold of the probing fingers. "He so got you," Dean growled, staring at the star buried just below Sam's rib cage.

Sam turned his head, and gagged. "Got to go. We're to out in the open here."

"No kidding. But you're not going anywhere stuck like a bull." Dean gripped Sam by the forearm.

"Pig,' Sam corrected.

"Sam, you may be a lot of things, but a pig isn't one of them."

"Pig, Bull. He obviously doesn't want us...me dead."

"He needs your cells to stay alive," Dean reminded, gripping the pointed dart stuck in Sam's chest carefully.

"Cell?" Sam grimaced, when Dean made contact with the sharp projectile.

"No bars," Dean announced sounding distracted, yet knowing exactly what Sam was talking about.

Thing went to a pocket - searching around inside - nothing.

"Crap," Sam muttered. _He'd left his phone on the kitchen counter._

"Shit, Sam. This one's anchored in really good. Breathe in deep."

Before Sam was half-way through his breath, Dean pulled the star out.

"Mmmmm." Sam bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming.

"Fuckin' Jet Li." Dean flung the bloodied, metal into the snow. Grabbing hold of Thing, he pressed the hand to the wound. "Keep pressure there." Dean went to Sam's shoulder. "Hang tough, bro. This one's not so bad." Dean gripped star number two.

"He didn't-didn't get you?" Sam panted heavily.

"No. Hard to see with all this snow, and his focus wasn't on me anyway," Dean rambled, "Here we go," he warned Sam of his intention. "Breathe."

Sam took in another breath, the pointed dart in his shoulder slurping out a little easier than the one in his chest.

Not having anything to patch Sam's shoulder with and noting the wound wasn't bleeding to bad, Dean inched down, making his way to Sam's leg. "Last one," Dean informed.

"Awesome," Sam ground out, shivering against the cold and the wind. "Why isn't he coming after us?"

"Really, Sam. Haven't you ever watched Kung-Fu?" Dean briefly glanced around for their attacker through the flying snow, then going back to work on his brother. "He's a damn foot solider. Likes to stalk his pray in silence. Beefcake-You obviously was taught war isn't just war, but an art form," Dean pinned Sam's leg to the ground with one hand.

"You sound like Dad."

"Hold still, little brother. Another deep one." Dean gripped the star between his numbing fingers. "Breathe, Sammy." Dean yanked upward with a quick, swift jerk.

"Guh!" Sam fought not to flop about.

"Shit," Dean cursed. "Sorry, man, it's still in."

"You know…" Sam grit his teeth, "You-you suck at this." Sam glanced down at the star goring his leg, pain running up and down the length of his body.

Dean patted Sam's uninjured leg. "Ready?"

"No."

Dean yanked again, harder this time.

"Uuuhhh," Sam cried out.

"Got it."

Sam hefted himself weakly from his side over onto his back, gritting his teeth. "Whoop-whoopee doo." He glared at Dean.

Thing resisted the urge to draw away from the chest wound and reach for the leg.

"Fuck." Dean frowned at the blood dripping off the two and a half inch points before dropping the star into the snow.

"Almost done." Dean drew his scarf off his neck and wrapped it around Sam's thigh, quickly pulling the ends down hard.

"Ahhh." Sam arched up off the snow. "You son-of-a…Dee-ahhh," he flopped back down, whimpering.

"What?" Dean feigned casualness as he finished tying off the makeshift bandage. Blood already staining the material.

"You forgot to say," Sam gasped for air. "Breathe."

"That old trick never works." Dean cocked an ear to the wind.

"No kidding." Sam struggled to sit up.

The flurry of snow shrouded the area in white and deadened all sound aside from the wind.

"Don't worry, Sam." Dean cleared away the snow that had already covered the two crossbows, slinging both leather straps over his shoulder.

"Not worried." Sam winced.

Dean stared sternly into Sam's eyes. "We gotta move, now, Sam. Can you make the cabin?"

"Yes." Sam pushed away the pain and stood with Dean's help.

Thing pressed harder to Sam's chest.

Sam took two stubborn steps. Blackness grabbed onto the edges of his vision and his knees buckled.

Whoa. Hey." Dean gripped the front of Sam's jacket with both hands and tugged him back up before his knees could hit. "Sam," he called loudly, purposely tipping Sam's face toward the whipping wind. "Come on. No more time for snow angels," Dean barked. "Keep with it."

The sudden blast of cold air hitting Sam directly in the face did its job. "Yeah. Yeah." Sam kept standing, although weak-kneed and shaking. "I'm okay. I'm with it," he murmured, swaying from side to side.

Dean glared at Sam with uncertainty, still gripping his jacket with both hands. "You faking again?"

"Seriously? You unstuck me three times and I'm bleeding, Dean." Sam tried to stop shivering, but couldn't, blinking away the snowflakes sticking to his eyelashes. "How can I fake that?" His teeth chattered.

"I don't know, bro." Dean pulled Sam beside him wrapping an arm around his waist, heading them toward the cabin. "You're pretty good."

"Not good enough."

Thing came away from Sam's chest, blood-covered fingers trembling.

"Give me the other crossbow," Sam demanded."

Dean frowned. "I don't think so."

"Just give it to me, Dean," Sam straightened. "I'm fine. If Terminator me attacks we both need to defend ourselves."

Dean took a moment to peel back Sam's jacket and eye his chest wound. "Wind chills gotta be like five below. The cold's slowing down the bleeding." Dean forked the weapon over to Sam. "You give me a heads up, dude, if you think you're going to face plant."

Thing was numb with cold, but situated the crossbow strap over a shoulder.

"Sam?"

"I'll be fine, Dean. Just get us back to the cabin."

They headed off through the drifting snow.

TBC….


	10. Play Hard  Break Fast

HIDDEN

CHAPTER TEN

AN: Thank you so much for sticking with this. Very special to me how supportive and most encouraging everyone is. Please take the rest of this story with a flake of pink snow - if you would - it's almost over now.

Happiest of New Years to all - celebrate every day of life - come what may!

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

The snow continued to fall…

Sam and Dean battled against the giant, white flakes. Finding their way back to the cabin wasn't easy. The wind whapped them in the face like a swarm of angry bugs and the flurry of snow only served to slow them down - damn near swallowed them up.

Sam was freezing. The wounds he'd sustained took turns burning and throbbing. The pain stopping then hurting again. He could feel blood tracing a path down his wounded leg. The hole in his chest pulled with every breath, causing his abdominal muscles to twitch and spasm.

_Gawd he felt sick._

Thing's fingers were cold and stung and were quickly loosing strength, but kept hold of the crossbow - loaded and at the ready.

"Ugh." Sam stumbled awkwardly, his foot dragging behind through the ever deepening snow.

Dean grabbed an arm setting Sam straight, keeping them moving. "You gonna make it?" He shouted over the top of the wind.

"On it," Sam said, desperate to stay up right.

Dean shot him a look. "You sure?"

"Sure, sure I'm sure." Sam kept a hard-edge look on his face.

Dean kept staring.

"For the fifth time, Dean, I can make it," Sam bit back a groan, elbowing aside his pain.

"Uh-huh." Dean slowed his pace, inching closer to Sam in case the kid wanted to make another snow angel - using his face. "Almost there," he said. Bow raised, Dean scanned the tree line, searching left then right, blinking hard against the flying snow. "No sign of Beefcake," he muttered.

"He's still after us," Sam confirmed in a small voice, not bothering to look around.

"How can you tell through all this white shit?"

"Can sense him."

Dean eyed Sam and frowned deeply, obviously not liking that answer - not one little bit.

Their boots crunched through the drifting blizzard as they rounded a grove of tangled bushes. The lighted windows of the cabin finally came into sight. With bowed heads, they made for the cabin.

"Look's all clear." Sam wobbled slightly, eyes registering the surroundings.

The large trees bordering the small house offered little protection from the wintry storm. Snow had already piled up - glistening - on the slanted roof. Smoke curled lazily out of the chimney. Everything seemed peaceful and quiet. Took on a chestnuts roasting. Hot cocoa sipping, cookie baking, warm and inviting feel.

"Little too clear. Like something off a sappy, overly priced Christmas card." Dean eyed the cabin with suspicion.

No Christmas card he'd ever seen on the drugstore card-racks featured an injured, bleeding brother or some giant- sized replica of one, hunting them down like mangy sled dogs.

They made the porch. Taking the steps in tandem.

Dean paused. Listened with an ear to the door. Nothing.

Sam peeked in a side window. Everything appeared as they'd left it.

Dean shrugged, giving Sam the 'here goes nothing' look as he pushed open the unlocked front door, stepping in first.

A blast of chilly snow pushed Sam in right behind him, the kid still battling to stay on his feet.

They paused again in the open doorway. Held their breaths, snow creeping like fog across the floorboards.

A toilet flushed.

Sam and Dean both heaved a sigh.

"Bobby, hit the lights!" Dean howled, promptly slamming the door shut behind him with a boot kick and locking the deadbolt. "Sam! Go check all the other doors and windows"

"Umph," Sam whimpered.

Dean turned around just in time to see Sam's eyes roll white and his body tilt sideways. "Ho." Dean took Sam strongly by the arm. "Come on, pal, stay on your feet."

Thing gripped tighter to the crossbow, keeping the weapon from hitting the floor.

"Yeah." Sam's eyes rolled back, though his vision blurred. "Okay. I'm good." He corrected his stance.

Dean gave Sam the once over, not trusting enough yet to let go of Sam's arm. "Damn it, Bobby, hurry up," Dean yelled again in aggravation, noting the lights were still on.

"You screaming for me, boy," Bobby's grouchy voice sounded off. Strange.

Dean tensed and spun around. Saw Bobby stepping out from behind the kitchen door. Saw a man right behind. Saw red. Bobby's red. Dripping from the corner of his mouth and hair line. Dean's own red-anger quickly filled ever fiber of his being. The man behind Bobby was his supposed family. His mother's father. His grandfather, who had a gun pressed menacingly against Bobby's temple.

Bobby tilted his head in apology. "Was plunging the toilet when I shoulda' been watchin' the security cameras."

"Samuel," Dean snarled. "You fucking bastard."

Thing went into guard dog mode. Raising the crossbow and pointing an arrow at the bald man's head.

"W-who?" Sam stuttered out, standing right at Dean's shoulder.

_All that time in gray hell and Sam had never seen a soul. So this was the man behind his captivity. The man behind his second deployment into hell._

Thing itched to pull the trigger, wanting to send a feathery bolt running straight through this old guy's right ear and drag his brains out the left before he ever had a chance to answer the question.

Dean took one gliding step in front of his brother, putting himself between Sam and the threat. "Sam." Dean kept his bow raised, reaching hand back and waving. "Ease up."

Thing followed orders, lowering the bow, the arrow pointing harmlessly at the ground.

"Dean?" Sam questioned with agitation.

"Sam, meet Samuel. Our grandfather," Dean said, his voice dripping with distaste like he'd just been fed a spoonful of dog diarrhea.

Sam's mouth gaped slightly, never taking his eyes off the man. "He's…he's…"

"Weapon's on the floor," Samuel fiercely blurted.

Dean stood his ground. "He's the friggin' bastard who kept my kid brother…" Dean's eyes shifted ever so slightly, indicating Sam poised and at the ready behind him. "…locked up for a year." Dean's tone was dark and deadly. "Kept the most important person in the world to me rotting like dead meat in that piss-hole." Dean shivered at the mental image of Sam lying in filthy clothes, on the filthy cot, in the filthy cubbyhole, doped up to the gills. Swallowing back the bile, Dean asked, "What do you want now? To Extract more of Sam's DNA for your experiments…take over the world," he assumed.

"I said, weapon's down, son."

"Not your son. Not anything to you," Dean snarled like a ravenous animal.

Thing defiantly raised the bow, readying to fire.

Dean calmed himself. "You heard our Grandfather, Sam. Weapon down."

Thing opened, releasing the weapon.

Before Sam's bow even hit the floor, Dean advanced two full steps. Bravado high. Crossbow higher. An arrow pointed right between Samuel's eyes.

"What do you think you're doing?" Samuel hissed. "Weapons down. That means you too, Dean-o." Samuel edged along the wall toward a window, pulling Bobby to his chest to shield himself further.

"This is me…" Dean took another threatening step. "Killing you," he said, voice matching the darkness of his eyes.

"And this is me…"Samuel twisted the nozzle of the gun against Bobby's temple, pinching skin and producing a grunt from his captive. "Blowing a .38 caliber bullet hole in replacement daddy's head if you don't drop your weapon and back off. Now!"

"Stop pussy footin' around, boy, and just kill the old geezer," Bobby barked, his eyes glassy.

"Question is…" Samuel said in a peaceful, calm way "Which old geezer is going to buy it first?" Samuel raised a brow, his finger twitching on the trigger of the handgun pressed to Bobby's head.

Dean's bravado slammed into place and he heeded Samuel's warning as he lowered his weapon. The bow slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor. "Now what, Doctor Weird with a splash of strange?" Dean hissed, wishing he could kill Samuel with his eyes alone. "You and prototype-Sam going to extract more of my brother's DNA for your Cracker Jack robot army?"

"Something like that."

"You just can't wait to be King, can you?" Dean spat.

"Assistant to the King," Samuel corrected.

Dean's brow puckered. _What the hell did that mean? Someone else was in charge - that's what. Shit._

"And those Cracker Jack experiments were working," Samuel continued self-assured, with a hint of pride. "Until their cells started to deteriorate, and the clones went rabid."

Dean laughed in hysterical self-amusement, "They went crazy-dog on your asses."

"So, you put them all down," Bobby grunted, remembering the pile of dead bodies they'd found at one of the compounds.

Sam shuffled nervously behind Dean.

"They play hard, but break fast." Samuel shrugged nonchalantly. "We killed all their donors, too." Samuel's eyes briefly shifted to Sam, then back to Dean. "Except for a handful who seemed to have the Wheaties factor. You actually did us a favor rescuing Sam, Dean. Otherwise your kid brother would be rotting in a mass grave right now with all the rest." Samuel tipped his chin toward a window, eyes now permanently locked on Sam. "He's out there. You've been feeling someone watching you?" Samuel asked knowingly. "He can sense you too, Sammy boy. For miles and hundreds of miles. He took off. Ran from me. To find you. Kill you. Because your screwed up thoughts and cluttered emotions about hell are messing with his mindset."

Dean went from being amused to being furious in a blink. "You don't need Sam's cells anymore to keep Conan The Energizer Beefcake up and running," he quickly deduced.

"Need Sam there as bait to collar his clone's ass." Samuel nodded, a wicked smile crossing his face. "Sam there has some nice, meaty red stock, although right now looks like some of that stock is leaving his body."

Sam glanced down at the blood soaking through his shirt just under his rib cage and through his pant leg. He was thawing out and the bleeding was starting to flow faster - save for his shoulder.

You look like you're going to kiss the ground, kid." Samuel smiled bigger. "Good. Makes my job easier."

Thing jiggled back and forth nervously at Sam's side, rattling a few coins in Sam's pocket.

"Sammy?" Dean didn't take his eyes off Samuel for a second.

"I'm just fine, Dean," Sam replied, calmly and sweetly.

"He's just fine," Dean redirected just as calmly and sweetly back at Samuel.

Samuel smirked. "Like I was saying…the kid has some meaty stock running through him. Sam's clone is only one of a handful that didn't go kapoof and turn into a puddle of slimy soup after one too many charges. We need All Star-Sam and Scrawny-Sam back." Samuel winked at Dean. "More Cracker Jack experiments."

"So you can restock your army with new and improved toys," Dean mumbled sarcastically.

Bobby caught Dean's eye. _Stand ready, boy. We are not so screwed yet_. "You bad guys are so cliché," Bobby interrupted, stirring uncomfortably in Samuel's hold. "Talk to much and you're all insane."

Samuel tightened his embrace. "Not suffering from insanity - more like benefiting from it," Samuel half-laughed.

"So now what, grandpa blab-a-lot?" Dean growled sarcastically.

"So, now…" Samuel got serious. "Sam there needs to stay conscious long enough to help me tie you two up and then we go out into the frozen tundra and catch us a rogue clone."

"Why not just kill us!" Dean double-dog dared.

Samuel paused to think that over a moment. "Loving it." He shook his head no. "But if I did that, Sam would rather die than help me out." Samuel glanced at Sam. "Really want both Sam's alive."

"No. Not helping you, you sick freak," Sam conquered, taking a step forward - eyes trained on Samuel.

Dean smiled smoothly. _That's my boy._

Thing tap-tap-tapped against Sam's thigh, obviously wishing for the weapon on the floor.

"Or better yet," Samuel continued. "You take another step, kid, and I will just kill these two and lash your scrawny-ass to a tree and sit back and wait for your … "

"Dean." Sam tensed, his tone filled with anxiety. "He's out there," he warned with absolute certainty, gaze dropping to the crossbow lying on the wooden floor.

Thing stopped tapping, ramrod straight at Sam's side.

Dean flinched back a protective step, closer to Sam, eyes never leaving Bobby's.

Samuel's attention divided. From Sam to Dean to the window and back to Dean.

Bobby blinked at Dean. _One. Two. Three_. Raising his boot slowly, Bobby kicked the flat of his foot backward against the wall two times.

**Thump.**

**Thump.**

The power in the cabin suddenly shut down, plunging everyone in it into complete darkness.

All hell and chaos and mayhem broke loose at once. Everything happening within seconds of each other.

The drunk and disorderly scuffle of feet.

Furniture lifting into the air.

Glass shattering.

Flesh hitting flesh.

The flash of gunfire.

A grunt.

A groan.

A yelp

The front door slamming open.

Winter-cold wind blowing inside.

Blasts of snow swirling across the floor.

"Bobby!"

**Thump.**

**Thump.**

The lights came back on.

Dean and Bobby were tangled in a heap of chairs, books and end tables.

Dean quickly shoved out from under the busted-up mound, grunting as he worked his way up to his feet. "Fuck!" he howled, scanning the room. "He was in here."

"Lumber Jack, Sam." Bobby waggled a hand in the air struggling out form under the overturned couch. "Tell me something I don't know, idjit."

Dean continued to look about, his body shaking from adrenalin. He could feel the bruises forming on his arm where large, strong, familiar - but not - hands had grabbed hold of him and sent him airborne.

"Dean! Old geezer. Little help here," called Bobby.

Dean shook free of his shock and lifted the couch, nearly tossing the heavy piece across the room. "Who turned out the lights?" Dean questioned as he pulled Bobby up to wobbly feet, making a quick check of the bleeding wound on the side of Bobby's head.

Bobby shoved Dean away and quickly started digging through the rubble. "You heard of clap on - clap off?"

"You watch infomercials?" Dean looked shocked.

"Hallmark channel too." Bobby flipped an end table over, arming himself with the .57 Magnum duct tapped underneath. "It's where I got my inspiration. Thump on - thump off," Bobby said with an air of satisfaction. "Two swift kicks to any wall…kills the circuit breaker. Every light in the house goes out."

Dean clucked his tongue, "Little late there on the lights out," he murmured, but there was awe in his voice as he pulled his crossbow out from under a chair, happy to see an arrow still knocked and ready.

_One arrow between the eyes of their grandfather was all Dean needed, and he wouldn't miss._

"How you want to handle this?" Bobby asked, handing Dean a gun he'd pulled out from inside a false book.

Bullets were too good to waste on, Samuel, but Dean took the gun and shoved it in his waistband for good measure. Glancing at the floor, Dean cringed at the sight of quarter-sized blood droplets leading out of the cabin.

"Sammy," he whispered fearfully

"Kid will be all right, Dean. He's got balls," Bobby assured. "I'll take the backyard," Bobby plotted, already on the move. "You take the front."

Dean nodded, coming out of his stupor. "Watch yourself," he called after Bobby as he inched cautiously out the open front door.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

When the door to the cabin blew open, it wasn't just a swirl of cold and wet snow that invaded Sam's very being. A very tall, very broad, very muscle bond, swift and nimble shadow entered with it. The shadow-man, straight away started tearing the place apart. Tossing whatever/whoever he could get his giant hands on about the room like a bull charging the Matador's red cape.

Sam nearly blacked out when he was thrown headlong, hitting the couch and tipping the piece over onto its side. Somehow keeping his wits, Sam scrambled on all fours across the floor.

Thing's fingers splayed wide and blindly searched the floor for the crossbow, but in the anarchy of tumbling furniture and bodies, was unable to arm himself.

Then as quick as the bull had come, the bull had left. Out the open door and disappearing - Ninja-like - into the snow-filled night.

Sam got to his feet. For a split second hesitated. Deciding Bobby and Dean could handle Samuel, he headed out the door. He knew Other-Sam was luring him from the cabin. Knew what his twin wanted. Sam didn't care. He was drawn to this mirror image of himself. Maybe not as strongly as Beefcake-Sam had been drawn to him. But drawn just the same. He didn't know how. Didn't care to find out. Both their minds were made up. Two Sam's couldn't walk the earth together. Invading one another's space. In body or in mind.

Sam shivered. Though he was cold, warm sweat dripped down his chest.

Thing hugged Sam's chest. Duh - wasn't sweat - was blood.

Snow crunched under Sam's boots as he limped along, too cold to tell if his leg was still bleeding. He could barely see through the whip of white flurries as he traced the footsteps of his twin; who appeared to be heading toward the black covering of trees behind the cabin. Sam didn't get very far, however. Bigfoot's prints had quickly disappeared. Dusted over by the constantly heavy and fresh falling snow.

A strange, deadened silence fell over Sam, and he stopped near a pile of chopped wood.

He started to breathe hard. Little huffs of air going in and out his open mouth. Numbing his tongue. His teeth. The blizzard infiltrating his entire body.

He was weak.

He was lanky.

He was stupid.

Standing out in the open like a hunted deer. Unprotected. His training far from complete, not to mention his twin bested him by eighty-plus pounds of solid Grade A beef.

'Course it didn't matter none. Beefcake-Sam seemed to have Scrawny-Sam on radar even from hundreds of miles away. Sam didn't have to see his mirrored-self to know the freak was close by. Watching. Smiling. Stalking. Playing ball and string - a lethal wild-cat - slow to kill the mouse. Obviously, Beefcake-Sam's favorite game.

Why hadn't his twin thrown anymore stars? Had Other-him run out? Sam highly doubted that. Beefcake was just that crazy or that arrogant not to rush an attack. Whatever the reason, Sam's only option was to fight. What choice did he really have. Be killed or be caged. He wasn't going to run. Wasn't going to get locked in a cage ever again. Weak and injured, or not.

_If you're going down, son. Go down swinging. _John Winchester's last rule blew cold in Sam's ear.

Sam glanced right. Then left. Then down at the stack of snow-covered logs. A smile of his own came to his face when he saw the hint of red sticking out of all the white-stuff. An axe. Held in place by a log.

He lifted his head high and shouted, "Enough! You can show yourself!"

Time slowed to a creep.

The snow blew.

The wind howled.

The trees creaked.

Sam's heart pounded. His body began to shake with shivers and his shoulders hunched involuntarily. His face was so cold it hurt. He fought to keep from sinking to his knees.

Thing, too, was raw and numb. Fingers crimping.

Like something out of a dream, an enraged, bulky shadow-creature suddenly shot from the shroud of trees. Beefcake. None other. His twin made straight for Sam. Tall and big and strong. Looking even more superior and fierce in the dimness of the night than his reflection had in the Ford's fender back in the field.

Sam didn't see a weapon in the large hands that pumped at his twin's side. Didn't matter. Sam had no doubt Beefcake could tear him apart with his bear hands and steamroll Sam - bloody - into the snow.

Warning bells went off in Sam's head. The instinct to retreat was strong. This was more than he had bargained for. Sam was scrawny. He was weak. He was insane. He was…

_A Winchester. _John's voice intercepted his thoughts, snapping Sam from his passiveness.

Sam forced himself to remain calm and not move. Fought off the overpoweringly spread of panic. Un-hunching himself, Sam drew his shoulders far back. Spread his feet apart. The right slightly forward. The left slightly back. Balanced. Keeping his eyes on the target that plowed through the near calf-deep snow toward him - a grunting mound of muscle.

Thing twitched at Sam's side, knowing exactly what his job was.

_Wait._

_Wait._

_Wait._

The mantra was hard to keep up. So many things were going through Sam's head at once. He could almost hear what Beefcake was thinking. The instinct and desire to end Sam - that strong. That intense.

Sam's knees quivered harder, but he dug in. Still fighting the all-to-human urge to shrink back. To run. He just had to wait for Beefcake to get close enough.

Everything seemed to swirl in slow motion.

As Beefcake neared, Sam noted the guy didn't even appear injured. Hadn't Dean nailed him in the shoulder with an arrow? He looked strong and unharmed. Gawd, his twin was big. Had Sam ever been that tall? That built up? Even at his best, Sam didn't think so as he listened to the heavy impact of Beefcake Sam's feet crunching down upon the new fallen snow.

Out of the corner of Sam's eye, a second shadow moved several yards off to his left. Sam took in three things at one time. Wasn't Dean. Wasn't Bobby. And this shadow had a rifle pointed directly at him.

_Crap. Samuel. Had to be._

Sam had no time to worry about that now. Beefcake was suddenly on him. Leaping over the woodpile like a robot.

Thing snatched the axe handle, the snow immediately melting under the touch.

_Not going back to hell._

_Not going back to hell_

_Dead or alive - just not._

With what little strength Sam possessed in his body - the rest coming from his soul - Sam swung the axe.

Beefcake attacked full force, elbow landing against Sam's wounded chest.

Sam slammed to the ground. Laid out on his back in the snow, the wind knocked from him.

"Deee," he tried to cry out but it was like a toothbrush had been rammed down his throat and the word ended on a drooling gurgle.

Stunned, Thing released the axe.

Beefcake dropped down next to Sam. Drew close. Eyes on his prize. A crooked smile on his face. "You trained hard, boy. But not hard enough."

"Bite me." Sam cringed, he hadn't meant to put ideas in the other guy's head.

Beefcake could have torn right into Sam. Gutted him with his teeth, but his twin just eased back off of Sam. Flippantly flicking hair out of his eyes. "Go for it," he uttered and stood back a few feet. The cat letting the mouse go - temporarily.

Never one to waste an opportunity, Sam flipped to his belly. Eyes flicking about, he spied the axe handle only inches from him.

Thing made a desperate scramble, reaching out for the axe.

Sam almost laughed when the Rocky theme started to echo in his ears.

Thing snatched the axe.

Sam surprised himself when he sprung to his feet and whirled.

Beefcake barreled toward Sam.

"Ahhhh!" Sam let out a war cry, and swung hard as he could.

Sam was shocked into horror as he watched his twin's head was whacked right off the refrigerator-sized body. Sailed up and through the air, thumping wet and super bloody, face up - eyes no longer registering their surroundings.

Sam stumbled backward.

Thing held tight to the axe, as if the handle was made of glue - blood dripping from its blade, spotting the snow.

Sam stared on in sick-curiosity as Beefcake-Sam continued to remain upright. Tripping over his feet like some freaky Barnum circus sideshow. Headless Beefcake, aimlessly staggered awkwardly about. Arms outstretched. Hands searching. Still in hunter mode. Still wanting to end Sam even though his head was missing. It wasn't more than a few seconds before Beefcake's death sentence finally caught up to his body, and he bashed belly forward down into the snow - dead.

_Never under estimate a Winchester. _John's voice rang out into the night.

The carnage was horrible. Blood and bone and strands of vein and skin poked out of Beefcakes stubby neck. Sam wanted to puke so badly, but he quickly turned his thoughts toward enemy number two.

Thing raised the axe, ready to defend.

Too late. No need. Something sharp and pointy jabbed deep into Sam's neck.

"Uh- gaaah," Sam groaned out loud, knowing right away what the sharp, pointy thing was.

The darts drug absorption was rapid.

Thing dropped the axe and reached up to pull the protruding shaft, but quickly went dead-weight dangling by Sam's side.

Sam too, immediately going limp and breathless. "Nuh."

Gobs of falling snow and the black-shroud of the nearby forest, mixed, combining with the whiteness of the ground. A 'which way is up' confusion swiftly taking Sam over.

Wet and trembling-cold from the snow that had penetrated his clothing, Sam folded down to the ground. Plopping softly in a snowdrift, back scrapping against the pile of chopped wood.

Woozy, chemically confused and immobilized, he blinked upward. Huge, white bricks fell from the sky. Sam cringed, awaiting the bone-crushing pain, but the bricks were light and fluffy. The bricks stuck to his hair and his eyelashes and finding their way up his nose - turning him into a human snowman instead of gritty mush.

TBC…

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/


	11. Bloody snow globe

HIDDEN

Chapter eleven

AN: To: Clair - so you can believe, my friend!

And to Wallflower - for the idea.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Samuel had managed to slip away from the darkened cabin. His favorite clone more than enough distraction as Beefcake Sam tore up the room, everyone and everything in it. Of course, this wasn't how Samuel planned things to go down. He never expected Scrappy Sam making it out of the cabin too. Let alone capable of killing his machine. Samuel had watched in sorrow as his favorite's head was severed from the muscular body. To far away to stop the inevitable.

So the clone was dead. Didn't matter. Sam was the one he needed most. Samuel could always manufacture another clone - hundreds, thousands. Clones that would not decay. All it would take was more experiments. Using Sam's DNA as a base. That special blend of Wheaties formula.

Samuel smiled when he darted Sam. Lowering his rifle, he headed toward the kid before Sam even fell to the ground. Darting was always Samuel's specialty. Sure it wasn't going to be easy wrangling the sedated, long-limbed kid out of the area in this weather. Especially, with his older grandson and Singer tracking them. Of course, maybe the clone had taken care of that issue before going after Sam and losing his head.

Either way, again, it didn't matter. Samuel was a Campbell. He never sat around wondering what to do next. When things went South…a Campbell just turned around and went North.

The falling snow was blowing sideways now, drifting like dust across the prairie. It blinded him and slowed Samuel's pace as he trudged toward his downed prize. A few times he had to stop to catch his breath. The moon rolled in and out of the clouds, sending dark-blue shadows creeping across the glistening snow. Tree limbs bowed heavy, some snapping from the extra weight.

A shiver of cold brushed down Samuel's spine just as he realized the snapping was something more. He reached a hand behind him to retrieve his .38.

"Ahem." Came a throat clearing cough from behind. "Don't." The warning so heated it could probably melt the largest iceberg floating in Antarctic waters.

"Shit." Samuel's hand froze halfway, mid-air. "Grandson number one," he gave an amused laugh, glancing at the tranquilizer gun in his other hand.

"Not your grandson," Dean snapped.

"Then who?" Samuel asked cockily.

"I'll tell you who…" Dean paused. "I'm Sam's older brother," he growled, menacingly.

Samuel's mouth went dry, damn near feeling the hellfire that spat from Dean's throat. His heart pounded into overdrive. He still had a dart loaded and ready. A dart that he was certain wouldn't be fast enough to take Dean down; whether the boy had a gun, a knife or his bare hands. Dean wouldn't let his brother, his responsibility, his guardianship, be taken from him again.

Samuel was the caught-off guard hunter.

Dean - father wolf - gone mad.

Samuel took another step forward, away from Dean.

"I said don't."

Samuel stood still. "Why not? You're going to kill me no matter what I do. Still your family, Dean. Whether you like me or not I'm your flesh and blood. DNA says so."

"Fuck DNA," Dean barked.

"Your mother raised you better than to talk like that, boy." Samuel slowly eased his finger over the tranquilizer gun's trigger, his free hand still itching to pull the pistol from his waistband. "So what? You just going to shoot me in the back, Tiger?

"I'm not a cold-hearted bastard like you."

"Meaning?" Samuel steadied his feet, willed his heart to slow.

"Meaning, turn around and face me," Dean ordered.

The fact Dean didn't order Samuel to drop his weapon was more than a little unnerving.

Samuel steeled himself. "Have it your way." He turned on the balls of his feet, keeping a smile on his face. He stared into green eyes, and even through the blizzard, could see they were so much like his daughters. Only this set of green eyes weren't full of love and devotion, but full of anger and hate. "You don't understand, boy," Samuel said, noting the crossbow in Dean's hand. The arrow pointed at his right leg - not a kill shot - but Samuel knew grandson number one all too well.

A snort escaped Dean. "I understand one thing and one thing only," he said, narrowing his eyes. "You kept my brother from me. In conditions unfit for the lowliest of demons. Treated him like a brainless turnip. "

"Your brother's no turnip. He's the poster child for the worlds perfect machine. I gave you back something better than Sam. A work of art," Samuel replied as causally as if he was washing his dirty socks in a motel room sink.

"Nothing better than Sam," Dean hissed.

Samuel stood straighter. Tall and dark and unafraid.

Dean remained still. The hateful darkness in his eyes turning stone-hard at the same time the temperature around them dropped a few degrees.

Samuel held back a shiver. Saw his own mortality staring back at him in the reflection of Mary's - he shook his head - Dean's eyes.

The world shrunk inward and went silent. Two men. Grandfather and grandson. Trapped inside the glass globe of one another's hell.

Branches swayed to and fro, their dark shadows looming across the snow between the two men facing off.

"So, I take it…this is you…killing me," Samuel easily concluded, mocking Dean.

Dean didn't so much as breathe.

"What are you waiting for then, boy?" Samuel's throat bobbed.

"Shh," Dean hushed. "Savoring the moment."

The hair on Samuel's arms prickled as both men stood saying nothing. The snow fell faster. Sparkling like glitter. Sticking like glue. Was as if someone had picked up the snow globe and shook hard. Both men struggled to keep their own footing. Keep their calm. Knowing the globe would soon shatter and break.

"Enough of this." Samuel dropped the rifle into the snow, it was useless against an arrow. He'd never get a shot off fast enough and the drug would take a few seconds to become effective. Seconds were the one thing Samuel didn't have when facing down a Winchester. "Go ahead. Kill me." Samuel took a gunfighters stand. Eyes unblinking. Both hands out, held away from his body, fingers wiggling slightly. Left hand. Right hand. Either one readying to snake behind him and draw down on Dean.

Well-trained by his father, Dean could feel the weight of Samuel's gun at his grandfather's back, sure as he felt his own. He could and should shoot Samuel right now. That easy. What was he waiting for anyway?

Samuel gave a chilling smile as if he could read Dean's mind. "In cold-blood isn't exactly your style now is it, Dean?" Samuel's right hand ventured slow and snake-like around toward his back, knowing Dean could have killed or at the very least wounded him already. Samuel wasn't about to waste another second. Kid was out for blood. Real blood. The heart stopping kind. _Time to move North. _"Having second thoughts about killing your granddaddy?" Samuel goaded.

"Nah." Dean shrugged casually, allowing the movement.

"Still savoring the moment?" Samuel asked, unable to keep himself from shivering and not from the ever falling snow but from the fear he couldn't control. Fear that burrowed deep, burning inside his belly.

"Just wondering a few things." Dean held Samuel's eyes. "You know I have to ask." He tilted his head slightly.

"Let me guess." Samuel stalled, knowing he'd only get one shot and having to time that shot just right. "You want to know who's on the high-end of this Cracker Jack mission."

"It would be nice to know who's the boss. Who sits in the corner office and drives home in the shiny, new Mercedes Benz," Dean said with a bottom-line tone to his voice.

"Bill Gates," Samuel spit sarcastically.

Dean nodded. "Oddly enough, I can believe that."

"What else were you wondering, Dean?"

Dean flashed every white tooth in his mouth. Samuel would never spill that barrel of monkeys. "Which would hurt worse?" Dean jiggled the crossbow, still pointed at Samuel's right thigh. "Head shot or heart shot."

"Funny." Samuel's hand reached the butt of his weapon, his grip firm, safety off, finger on the trigger. "I was wondering that very same thing." He drew his gun. Held it out and pointed right at Dean's heart; quick as any man knowing he was about to die, but not dying without a fight.

Dean had already shouldered the crossbow and fired a bolt.

Was a perfect headshot. Dead-smack-center between Samuel's eyes.

Samuel blinked at Dean, a painful groan escaping from somewhere deep inside. Blood ran down his nose and dripped into his slightly parted mouth.

Dean smiled blatantly. "Stings like a bitch, huh?"

Samuel was dead, but his mind didn't believe his body just yet. The gun in his hand wavered as he pulled the trigger. Instinctual. Uncoordinated. Unthinking.

**Bang!**

**Bang!**

Two bullets sailed harmlessly over the top of Dean's head.

"Missed me," Dean heckled, poking his tongue out.

Samuel teetered, forward than back, eyes going dull and glassy. "Youuuu…" he let out a breathy sigh, falling backward into the snow with a heavy thump. Dead.

Dean cocked his head as he watched blood shade the snow pink. In two strides he found himself crouched beside the fallen body and leaned way over. The gun in his waistband pressing cold against his back. "'Course a bullet to the heart would have stung a bit too." Dean stared straight down at his supposed grandfather and whispered, "Told you I was going to kill you." Samuel's eyes - hypnotized by death - looked straight back at him. "Friggin' wackjob." Dean cruelly wrapped his fingers, one-by-one, around the arrow. "You'll never hurt Sam again." With one mighty tug, Dean ripped the shaft from Samuel's forehead enlarging the hole. He smiled as he wiped the blood from the arrow's tip. A keepsake for certain. Necklace worthy even.

_What would his mother think of her father now?_

The snow globe shattered. "Dean!" Bobby's voice came through the heavily falling snow "Hey, boy, you okay?" Bobby trotted over out of breath, coming to stand next to Dean. "Oh, my...crap," Bobby uttered, staring wide-eyed at Samuel's body. "Old geezer my balls," he grumbled, swiftly recovering from his shock and turning toward Dean. "Where's Sam?"

"Still out there somewhere with souped-up Sam. Come on." Dean stood quickly, slightly off balance, the snow globe world he'd been in muddling his brain. "Bobby, we have to find him."

"We're up to our asses in snow, Dean, maybe we should split…"

Before Bobby could finish, Dean chose a random direction and ran off.

Bobby took a moment to reach down and snatch the .38 away from Samuel's cold, dead fingers. Shoving the still smoking gun into a jacket pocket, he then retrieved the rifle from the snow, glaring at Samuel. "No point beaten a dead horse." Bobby gave the already stiffening body a hard, boot kick. "Course if it makes you feel better…can't hurt none either," he laughed, giving one more swift kick for good measure. "Leaving you for Coon trash. Be back later to pick up the pieces," he growled.

Deciding splitting up was a jackass of an idea, Bobby headed off quickly to catch up with Dean.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Bobby saw it first. The outline of a body half-buried under a thin layer of snow. "Dean." He grabbed hold of Dean's elbow and pulled him up short afraid of what they might find.

Dean squinted through the flurry of snow, a hushed stillness falling over him as he followed the line of Bobby's gaze. His eyes watered. First from the coldness, then from the sick-fear at what they were looking at.

"No, no no." Mind reeling, Dean yanked away from Bobby, running through the snow.

"Sam, you stupid ass," Bobby mumbled stumbling right behind, dizzy, his insides burning like he'd just drank a five-gallon bucket of Sake.

Dean felt like he was in a bad dream. Everything moving in slow motion. The deep snow more like freshly poured concrete. His breath grew short and he was lightheaded -terror driving through him - more deadly than the bolt that he'd driven through Samuel's head.

_Not my Sam._

_Not my Sam._

_Not my Sam._

The mantra pounded out with each snow crushing boot fall. The horror shifting his soul to fall to his feet.

As they neared, Dean saw sliver-dollar sized drops of blood dotting the snow where a head should be. "Nooooooo!" he let loose a painful wail, dropping to his knees. His heart beat loud and cold. "Sammy," Dean choked, swallowing the sour burn of bile that flooded his cheeks.

His hands hovered - quivering - over the muscle bound body. His eyes already knew the truth, but his hazy brain was desperately screaming to catch up. "God." He roughly turned over the body, more blood leaking from the gaping hole where a head should be. "Oh, God, no."

Bobby came to stand right behind him, realization catching him full on. "It's okay, boy." A rock-steady hand clamped down hard to Dean's shoulder and held firm. "It's not him, son. It's not our Sam. It's not him," Bobby said over and over, knowing their Sam's body mass was no where near this size.

Dean shuddered. A burst of twisted, loud laughter filling the air as if Bobby had just delivered a funny punch line. Not ha-ha funny. But in nervous, damn near proud relief funny as his brain clicked. Sam had bested the soulless machine.

"That's my boy. That's my Sammy," Dean boasted. "But where?" Humor lost to him, Dean stood to shaky, disjointed legs to scan the snow for another mound. "Sam?" he uttered, unable to move as a mindless sensation took over him

"This way, punch drunk love." Bobby directed, grabbing Dean by the elbow and tugging him along. "I have an idea. Sam's not far."

TBC…

Note: Thank you, CeCe...for watching out!

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/


	12. Whisper The Wind  conclusion

HIDDEN

Chapter twelve

Summary: Conclusion

AN: You've all been so wonderfully fantastic through this nutty story. Thank you - most sincerely - thank you!

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

He could barely see through the whirlpool of whiteness. He tried to move, but couldn't. All he managed to do was lift his chin off his chest slightly. Was as if he was a marble statue, frozen like an icicle to the ground. His head plopped back painfully against something cold and rough.

_Damn he was so sleepy. _

He blinked several times, long and slow, staring upward. For awhile, all he could do was breathe in and out. Watching his own breath swirl like cigarette smoke from between his lips. He huffed and puffed - more for the fascination of it all then actual needing to breathe - enthralled by the white smoke that streamed out, then disappearing into nothingness.

"Huh," he moaned, unable to hold his head up, chin dropping back to his chest, a chest that ached dully.

He squirmed around, but the ache didn't go away. Something told him he knew why. He was in danger. Someone was coming for him. There was someplace else he should be. Little-by-little he became more aware. He was so cold and started to shiver violently. He needed to get up. To get away. But to where?

Took him several more minutes to figure out exactly where he was and why he was so cold. His back was pressed up against a pile of logs supporting him. His left arm at his side, hand buried in the snow, legs numb and scissored out in front of him.

Thing weakly roamed over the rough, ice-covered bark near his head.

Eventually, his frail state wore away enough that he at least knew what had happened to cause him not to be able to move. The sharp pinch of a needle poking out of his neck and the weird buzzing in his head - all too well-known

He'd been darted - a four step process.

Step one, his whole body would become heavy with sedation, collapsing and unmovable.

Step two, involuntary streams of tears leaking from his eyes at the same time snot dripped out his nose.

After awhile, step three kicked in - a goofy giddiness taking over - clarity would not return to him for a long time. And when clarity did return so would the final and least favorite step of them all.

Step four. After an undetermined time of being knocked unconscious - came the pain and the nausea and the puking.

He fought the darkness that was setting in around the edges of his vision. Didn't know why he bothered fighting. The darkness was bliss, but something inside him never would let him give up the struggle. Yet, no matter how hard he wrestled to stay with it, deep sleep would always come to him and drag him under. The wet-cold soaking in through three layers of clothing seemed to be the only thing keeping his eyes slit open right now. That, and a faraway, wildly fear-filled voice calling out his name. He lifted his chin from his chest, unable to support the weight, banged his skull painfully against the logs. Staring up into the sky, he listened to the muffled calls.

"Sam."

"Boy! Answer us!" Another voice. Different. Older. "Sam!"

_Sam? Was that his name. Sam. That was him. Right?_

The swirling snow seemed to slow. It made him feel dizzy, confused. He was hot. He was cold. Which? Cold. Right. Cold. He tried to stay focused. Kept telling himself he was outside. In the snow. Bleeding. He should try to stand, but his eyes groggily slipped shut.

There were footsteps. Hiking boots. Crunching closer. Light and fast. Behind them, heavier, slower steps. Someone was huffing and puffing out of breath - perhaps they were a chain smoker. He wondered what it would be like to inhale smoke directly into your lungs.

Never mind that now. Something was coming. Several something's. A dead body perhaps. Looking for it's head. A head Sam had chopped clean off.

_Take action. Run. Move. Hide_. Whispered the wind. Sam tried to get away, but all he could do was squirm around.

Thing stopped moving aimlessly across the icy logs, scrambling to grasp hold. A lame, half-assed attempt at getting Sam's body up to its feet.

The footsteps of the intruder's stopped. They were very close by. May have even already spied him. Helpless and unable to defend himself.

_Play dead. Play dead. Play dead_. The hidden voice whispered through the wind again, changing tactics.

"Dad?" Sam muttered, then went still. Eyes barely squinting open, so desperate to see what was coming for him, but everything was shrouded in white.

Thing fell away from the log, cowering in Sam's lap.

"There." The older voice sounded off, laced with excitement.

"Damn it," someone growled, the intruder's footsteps starting up again.

Instinct pulled at Sam's gut. He wanted to fight. Needed to fight. He wasn't going down easy. But that dull ache in his chest turned to burning, plus the drug surging through his veins, kept him in the snow where he sat.

Someone was there beside him now. "Sam." Hands gripping roughly at the fabric of the front of his jacket. "Talk to me." Shaking him. "Dude." Touching him. "Sam!" Fingers ran through his wet hair and traced down the sides of his freezing-cold face.

"Is he?" The huffy-puffy, older voice suddenly was there.

The fingers moved to press firm against the side of his neck, wiggling the dart, but not dislodging it. "He's alive. Aren't you, Sammy." The person seemed overly excited and giddy as a girl even. A thumb pried his left eye open. "Pupils are dilated." The thumb moved away and Sam's eye closed. Fingers now searching along his neck. "Fuck." The deeply embedded needle was quickly removed as well as some of Sam's skin.

"Guh," Sam moaned low in his throat.

"Easy." A warm hand reached behind his head, pillowing him away from the rough logs and slackening a little of Sam's fear.

"Nuh," Sam coughed, turning his head away.

Thing reached up, only to plop back down shakily into Sam's lap.

"You'll be fine. You'll be fine," The person kept saying as a gentle hand unzipped his jacket. "I got you now."

A strange, but familiarity - warm and deep - melted away some of Sam's cold.

"Crap," The younger of the two gasped. "His chest wound's opened up wider."

"How bad's it bleeding?"

"Bad enough."

"Make a snowball and pack it over the wound until the bleeding stops," the gruff older man snapped.

"Yeah Bobby," the younger man retorted angrily. "I think I know how to control a bleed."

"Don't get all testy, boy."

"Sorry."

Icy pressure came down just under Sam's rib cage.

"Mmmm," Sam whimpered and fidgeted.

"Hey, Frosty." Fingers snapped near his ear. "Try to open your eyes."

Someone took hold of Thing. Squeezed once, stroked ice-cold knuckles, held tight.

Sam's eyes blinked open.

He turned his head slowly and honed in on a shadow bouncing around between the falling white bricks. This half-creature half-person, although not as big, looked ten times as fierce as the one Sam had decapitated.

"Ugh." Sam's sensibilities, again, told him he needed to move. To run. To not let himself be eaten alive.

Thing could only continue to lay unresponsive and barely twitching in the warm hand that held tight.

"Sam." A face bent over him. "You're okay." The creature/person's fingers brushing the snow off Sam's face.

The falling bricks must have knocked his brain into place, because Sam suddenly knew who the person was.

_Dean. _

"How you feeling, reckless?"

Dean lay Thing down to Sam's lap.

Sam took a steadying breath, eyes scarcely able to stay open. "Out of it," he muttered.

"Out of what? Brains-in-the-ass," Bobby angrily answered his own question.

Sam averted his gaze from Dean to peer down his body at Bobby, who was checking his leg. A leg Sam couldn't even feel anymore.

"Because I don't care how the story goes," Bobby continued. You don't go taking on Goliath by yourself! What were you thinking, Sam?"

Thing fluttered. Knuckles iceberg white, struggling up toward Sam's face to wipe away the frozen tears and snot under his nose.

"Owe." Sam winced at how raw his exposed skin was, his shivering increasing. "Was think…thinking… dizzy…guh…tired." His eyes rolled back.

Thing plopping into the snow.

"You're good, Sam." Dean let up some of the pressure on Sam's chest. "Bleeding's under control here, Bobby. How's the leg?" Dean asked.

Sam opened his mouth to answer. To tell Dean he had no clue. He couldn't even feel his toes, but he was sluggishly slow and Bobby beat him to the punch anyway.

"Looks like it was leaking for a time, but not anymore," Bobby replied.

Why was Sam trying so hard to be apart of the action? He was numb, but yet achy. Weak. And even though cold, he was starting to sweat. His vision graying - close to passing out.

Thing was still, mostly covered in snow, red and blue and for all the world dead.

"Hey, man." Dean worriedly grabbed the hand, rubbing, trying to revive the frozen appendage.

Thing didn't responded to Dean's warming efforts this time.

"Son of a bitch," Dean sighed worriedly looking at Sam. "Flying needles. Flying stars. You're a friggin' dartboard, man."

Blinking snowflakes off his lashes, Sam looked all around. Everything was white and gray and black. The colors blending into blobs. The weird shapes moving up and down lazily like Bobby's lava lamp. Sam was hypnotized - in an amusing sort of way. _Step three._

"Fantastic," Sam mumbled under his breath.

"Sam, you with me?" Dean asked skeptically.

"Doubtful," Sam laughed lightly, body going droopy at the same time his eyes rolled back in his head and stuck there.

"Keep with me, huh?" Dean ordered, adding a cold, but gentle slap to the side of Sam's cheek for emphasis.

"Arh." Stimulated back into half-consciousness, Sam groggily slurred, "Feel little weird."

"Some hot coco and a warm wool blanket will help with that," Bobby offered encouragingly. "Stitch up these wounds," he added.

"That'd be nice, huh, Sammy?" Dean almost sung the words.

"Yeah," Sam garbled.

"Let's try to get him on his feet," Dean directed at Bobby.

Hands tugged at Sam until he was upright. At least he thought he was upright as the bricks were no longer falling in his face.

Huffing and puffing out his open mouth Bobby said, "You take one side, Dean, I got the other. We ought to be able to wrangle him back to the cabin." They started to move.

Sam gasped.

They stopped moving.

"You breathing, Sam?" Dean asked, anxiously.

"Repeatedly," Sam muttered, staring into Bobby's bearded face and wondering why Dean's voice was coming out the older man's lips.

Sam slowly turned his head to stare at Dean through glassy eyes.

"Think you can walk with our help?" Dean's lips moved, Bobby's voice seeping out.

Sam laughed. It was rather funny. His brain getting things all wrong.

Bobby and Dean stared across Sam at each other and frowned. "Think he's hypothermic?" Bobby asked anxiously.

"I think he's high," Dean snorted, but there was worry in his tone. "Hard parts over now, Sam. This is the bonus round. Gotta get you back to the cabin. Patched up and warm. Think you can make it, pal?"

A sloppy child-like smile came to Sam's lips. "I did the chicken dance," he told Dean.

"You what?" Dean drew back some, eyes wide with surprise.

"Took my head off," Sam chuckled.

"Not your head, Sam. Beefcake's head," Dean assured confidently.

"Huh?" Sam cocked his head, mesmerized, expecting Bobby's voice. "How are you doing that?"

"Doing what?" Dean glanced at Bobby. "You ready?" he questioned.

"Let's get the kid home, before I just park it right here in the snow. Never get up again if I do that," Bobby grumbled.

Sam hung limp between Dean and Bobby as they began to lug him back. "Know what a headless guy will never get again, Dean?" Sam's head bobbed up and down, the snowy ground rising and falling in time, wet bangs dangling in his eyes.

"No, Sam, what?" Dean trudged along, breathing with exertion.

"A headache…ha ha ha," Sam bellowed with laughter, arms and legs going all floppy and bendy - flaying in every direction.

"Idjit, come on!" Dean was once again using Bobby's voice. "Try to help walk a little here."

"Am walking, Bobby," Sam said, tearfully. "Here lemme help." He slung his right arm up around Dean's shoulder. "That better?"

Thing reached up to the back of Dean's head, fingers weaving tenderly through the nap ofDean's hair.

"You two planning your wedding?" Bobby shook his head at Sam's hand.

Sam laughed harder at that.

Dean sent Bobby a heated glance. "Must you egg him on?"

The white spots encircling Sam started to turn black. "Ugh." Sam did a country two-step, draped wet and weighty as a wet towel between Dean and Bobby.

"What'd I tell you about this not being dance class, kid?" Bobby offered readjusting his hold on Sam.

Sam fixed his eyes on Dean, a smile frozen on his face. "I can't dance."

"Dude, I know."

"Don't go night-night, Sammy," Bobby ordered - or was that Dean? "Not until we get you back to the cabin. You got me?"

"I…I…" Sam's breathing accelerated. His feet weakly scrambling to gain purchase in the snow, but his legs shot out from under him.

The two arms around the middle of his back grappled for better support.

"Son of a bitch." Came the combined curses as they all three almost tumbled to the ground.

"Hold on to him," Dean rasped with annoyance.

"Yeah. Hold on to me," Sam muttered, his feet slip-sliding under him as if he were walking on ice in high heels.

"Damn it, Sam," Dean berated. "Just stop."

Sam tried to stop shivering. Tried to keep his eyes open. To keep his feet on the ground.

The snow was still flying. Wind, cold and shrieking in his ears as he was pulled along.

"One foot in front of the other. You can do that right, little brother?" Dean huffed, nearly out of breath.

"Right, Bob…" Sam breathed, going first weak in the knees, then completely weightless, boot tips dragging in the snow.

"Ho." Dean pressed his side closer to Sam for support.

"There goes that option," Bobby wheezed, also taking up more of Sam's weight.

"Can you handle him, Bob?" Dean chuckled lightly.

"Don't you ever call me, Bob, boy. Bob was a spoiled, little boy in big trouble with his mother," Bobby snarled. "And the day I can't handle a Winchester…is the day you can lay me in my grave. You hear me asshat?"

"Copy that."

The snow continued to fall, slower now. Floating like large feathers from the darkened sky. The wind picked up - loud and cold - pulling snow from the ground. Churning and twisting it upward. A white funnel cloud suddenly appeared, blindingly spinning before them.

"Oh, shit," Dean cursed.

"What in jackrabbit shit is happening now? Not ready for the grave yet," Bobby squawked, a stumbling back a few steps.

"Weird stuff." Dean hunched away from the swirling mass and over Sam, desperate to shield his brother.

"We're going to die," Sam chuckled, suddenly aware again.

Thing tried to shove Dean out of the way, so Sam could see better.

"Sam, enough with the hand already," Dean scolded.

Before any one of them could react, the snow tornado dissipated into the frosty night air, dumping Castiel into the snow right on his trench-coated ass.

"Cas!" Dean's mouth gaped in shock through the flakes of feathery snow.

"Thank the pearly white gates," Bobby sighed with relief.

"Wicked," Sam said with awe, nearly slithering out of Dean and Bobby's hold, and wobbling side-to-side.

"Sam! Come on, man!" Dean reprimanded more strongly, both he and Bobby tugging Sam upright.

"That was less than enjoyable." Castiel frowned, pulling his hands out of the snow and shaking off the numbness. "I request forgiveness for startling you," Castiel stood. "I nearly collided with a very large Blue Spruce."

Sam laughed harder at that. "Angel topper."

Castiel cocked his head curiously at Sam. "That is funny to you, Sam Winchester?" Castiel's tone almost fatherly.

"Yeaaaah," Sam slurred out drunkenly. "It is."

"Sam," Dean warned, heatedly.

Thing slapped against Sam's mouth, to keep the kid from saying anything further.

Castiel turned to Dean. "Is Sam inebriated?"

"He's high," Dean simply stated, working to hold Sam in place as the kid kept wanting to go to his knees.

Castiel stared with interest at Sam's feet. "But he is standing on the ground."

Sam snickered behind Thing.

"He's high you snow angel idjit," Bobby griped, in agitation. "His body's here, but his brain is sleeping in a sock drawer," he explained.

Castiel continued to ponder, a concentrated grimace upon his face.

"Never mind that now," Dean snapped, impatiently "Where the hell have you been, Cas? Because we could have really used you down here. You know that full-colored, cardboard cut-out of Sam showed up along with…" Dean swallowed hard, couldn't even say the word.

"Your grandfather," Castiel helped, attention drifting from Sam to Dean.

"Yeah, well he was searching for product replacement for his peewee football team and he almost got it here with Sam. And you…you were…"

"Delayed, Dean. It could not be avoided." Castiel snapped his fingers, and the falling snow, fell no more. "I sincerely apolo…"

"Don't…bother." Dean shook his head, noticing not only had the feathery snow stopped falling, but all of them now stood in front of the cabin.

"You are safe now. I've spent the last twenty minutes searching around the immediate area and found no sign of clone activity. Their band is small. Regrouping will be difficult."

"What do you mean by immediate area?" Bobby questioned suspiciously, obviously not reassured they were safe.

"The surrounding forty-nine states," Castile assured.

"Yeah, okay, Phineas Fogg, thanks," Dean snapped. "Let's get Sam inside."

"What is a Phineas Fogg?" Castiel's interest peaked yet again.

Sam's squawking laughter filled the night.

"Was this a joke then?" Castiel gave the appropriate response - laughed and smiled.

"Just never mind," Dean bit out, both exasperated and exhausted.

Castiel glanced up at the sky, suddenly distracted. "I must go." In a whirl of snow, the angel was swept back upward, toward heaven.

"Going to sleep now." Sam went faint.

"Wait, Sam. Just wait," Dean growled.

Bobby barely able to hold him up.

"Guh," Sam moaned, dipping downward further, body flimsy,

"Oh, no you don't." Dean yanked Sam upright, shaking the kid. No response. "Damn good drugs," Dean muttered. "Sam!" He yelled loudly. "Stay awake." He shook Sam again.

Sam's eyes popped wide. "Don't be a jerk, Dean," he whined, tiredly, muscles tensing up.

"Just walk, bitch," Dean retorted as the three of them tripped up the porch stairs. "We're almost there."

"Keep it up you two…" Bobby opened the door with one hand. "I'll hit ya where the almighty split ya."

"Huh?" Dean stumbled inside, dragging snow and Sam with him.

"Translation…your ass, Dee…" Sam let out a breathy sigh and went lifeless.

"Sammy!" Dean quickly took up his half of his brother's weight.

Bobby took up the rest, his back damn near giving out. "Balls."

"Sam." Dean maneuvered them awkwardly over the wreckage scattered across the floor. "Bobby?"

"I got him. Get the couch, Dean."

Dean gave Bobby an unsure glance.

"I got him," Bobby insisted, securing Sam closer to him.

Dean stepped away, and made for the couch, clearing a path. Kicking books and crap out of the way as he went..

Bobby took on Sam's full weight with a grunt and a groan.

"You think we should get him upstairs into a bed instead?" Dean asked anxiously as the couch had seen better days.

"Jesus on a hay ride, boy. Stop mother-henning your brother and get that couch turned over." Bobby awkwardly juggled Sam.

Dean twittered about with the couch, getting it up on all fours and started to rummage for some pillows.

Finally they lay Sam down. Long arms and legs sprawling out over the undersized, busted up piece of furniture.

"I'll get some blankets," Bobby said, heading out of the room. He glanced back at the two boys. Dean huddled close to Sam, swiping wet hair away from the kid's eyes and talking in whispered tones. "Looks like I'm gonna need a new couch," He groused heading upstairs. "Love seat or some crap."

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Hell was a black dungeon full of true horror. The place made even the lowliest of worm's skin crawl. It was a place where demons - who had nothing further to offer, but torture - did so until the end of time.

Sam missed the sun, the sky, the wind in his hair. He even missed Led Zeppelin blaring in his ear while he tried to sleep in the passenger seat of the Impala.

He missed Dean.

His brother wouldn't come looking for him. He'd promised not to.

No one would come.

For Sam was the least of them all and he'd gone to hell - and in hell - Sam would stay. Be it below or above ground.

The numbness of the drug was slowly wearing off, like it always did. Damn crap always knocked him to the dirt floor. Made him loopy and confused. Made him cry and drool. Made him goofy. Then made him sick.

Sam didn't dare make a sound or open his eyes. He wasn't ready to come back down to reality. He'd had plenty of dreams under the sedation. Nightmares even. But this was the craziest dream of them all.

Bobby's cabin. An evil twin. Evil grandfathers. A clone factory.

Sam frowned to himself, he'd take his nightmares over hell any day. He wished himself back at the cabin. Or at the very least lying against that pile of logs, cold wisps of air burying him in snow. At least in his dream world he knew Dean would come for him. He could be someplace else. Feel something else. Like being safe and strong and loved. He could feel human. In his dreams he could escape the four gray walls that were his only world. But the sedation was wearing off, and it'd be a while before he'd be darted again into oblivion. At least that was something he could look forward to.

For now, however, he wondered what puke inducing slop he was left to choke down today. The crap he was served made Dean's grits in his dreamland seem sweet as honey.

Sam waited behind closed eyes for the drafty, damp, bone-stabbing cold walls of gray hell to close in on him. To penetrate the burlap sacks that never kept him warm. He waited for the smell of vomit and rotting flesh to fill his nostrils and flood his mouth with sickness. He waited for the grim silence of the windowless, brotherless cell to drown him once again in agonizing loneliness.

Eyes pinched shut, Sam waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

He started to feel a bit creeped-out when none of the usual things occurred. Should he chance a peek? Did he dare want to know what, or who had him where now? His father's voice, once again, spoke inwardly -John Winchester - always pulling military tricks out of an empty hat, even after death.

_It's all about eye discipline, Son. Always shoot with both eyes open, but sleep with one eye closed. Sure, that knocks out about a 1/3 of your peripheral vision, but you can still assess the situation. And when captured - peep. Take in what you can without alerting your captors. Being a peeping solider can save your life._

Sam chanced a peep. Cracking one eye open ever, ever so slowly and so slightly. Peeping was always hard. Mostly all he saw were his own eyelashes, everything watery and only half-lit. But even so, the facts hit him hard. This was not gray hell. Not black hell either. He was warm. Lying on something soft. The sound of dishes being stacked, food sizzling in a pan, twisting plastic, soft breathing. The smell of pine, coffee, fried chicken, fresh hot biscuits.

His senses kicked in further telling him something more. Something he'd wanted so badly. Something he never thought he could believe in again.

Home.

Be it motel room. Rented trailer. The Impala. Dean's arms or…

Sam let his one eye open wider. He was lying on a couch. Staring up at a rustic beamed ceiling.

The cabin.

Sam almost gasped, but instead his other eye fluttered, joining the first. Images were blurry but he could see well enough. The cold gray walls of hell had been replaced by warm knotty pine paneling. Sam glanced down at himself, brow puckering further. He was lying on his back. Shirtless, under a ton of blankets. He turned his head gradually to one side. His eyes growing bigger. Dean was sitting across from him in a reclining chair. Cursing under his breath, diligently working the colored cube.

Could this be real? No way he was dreaming again. A dream within a dream. How Edgar Allen Poe would that be?

_Oh, God, let this be real._

Thing nervously crept out from under several layers of wool blankets. Reached up and started to pick at the back of Bobby's couch.

Sam's mouth was parched, burning with dryness. He eagerly licked drool from his lips - leftover step two of the sedation. He tried to call Dean's name but all that came out was a low moan.

Dean glanced up from Rubik's bullshit, a smile on his face.

'Dean,' Sam mouthed, blinking hard, unsure.

"That'd be me," Dean set the cube down. "The more adorable looking brother." He grinned, climbing tiredly out of the chair. "You going for the longest nap world record there, Sammy?" Dean questioned, immediately coming to sit on the low coffee table that was situated in front of the couch.

"How?" Sam gasped and winced, raising his head up off the pile of pillows stuffed behind him.

"Hey. Shush, easy all right?" Dean placed one firm hand on Sam's shoulder regarding Sam carefully. "Don't move too much. Mess up your stitches," he said.

Feeling the tight pull in his chest and a sharp pinch in his thigh, the ache in his shoulder blade - crap - the ache in his entire body; Sam nodded, dropping his head back into the pillows.

"How you doing?" Dean asked worriedly, gently going about checking over Sam's chest bandage.

_Hmmmm. Good question. _Sam mulled the answer over, while his eyes traced about the room. Colored bindings of old books, no longer dusty and strewn across the floor were stacked back on shelves. Deer antler lamps, now missing a few points, sat on the end tables. The sound of Bobby whistling, came from the kitchen. An obviously broken window was boarded back up. His dream had been real. He was home. Back at the cabin.

Sam's stomach rumbled, unsettling and sloshing about like he'd swallowed a bowlful of live goldfish. _Crap. Step four._

"Sam? You okay?" Dean's worried gaze met Sam's.

Sam swallowed thickly and opened his mouth, but before he could answer Dean slipped a hand behind Sam's neck and tipped his head forward. "Thirsty, huh?" A plastic cup, complete with paper straw, magically appeared at Sam's lips. "Sip slow," Dean strictly ordered, holding the cup for Sam.

Sam took two small sips and was about to take a third when…"Ugh," he gagged, the paper straw sticking to his lips as one of those goldfish decided to jump from the bowl and swim straight up his gullet.

Dean quickly pulled back, stealing the straw from Sam and shoving a silver bowl under Sam's chin.

"Oh, guh," Sam heaved, spitting mucous-mixed water into the bowl and wondering where the goldfish went.

"That the way you impress chicks the morning after, little brother?" It was meant to be a joke, but Dean didn't laugh, supporting Sam's back with his free hand.

Sam groaned, the taste in his mouth horrible.

Thing pointed, demandingly at the cup sitting on the coffee table beside Dean.

"You won't keep it down, buddy," Dean said sadly but brought the cup to Sam's lips anyway. "You have a low grade fever."

Sam took half a sip, then another half sip. "Better," he murmured, pushing the straw away with his tongue.

Thing waved the cup away.

"That chest wound of yours is a little infected." Dean set the cup back to the coffee table, and lowered Sam back to the pillows. "And wandering around the North Pole didn't help." Dean shook his head.

"How long?" Sam's voice cracked.

"You've been drooling on yourself for two days almost now," Dean answered, sadly.

Thing went to the customary spot, picking at the back of the couch.

"You remember what happen?" Dean asked, watching the hand pull at the material.

Sam thought about that a moment. Memories mixing - like a blender - changing color until combined into one.

"Sort of." Sam shivered under the covers. "Safe now," he breathed out nearly in a whisper staring down at his exposed and bandaged chest.

"Right. No one is ever going to dare touch a hair on your chinny-chin- chin again," Dean quirked a smile

"Wha' if they touch my chest hairs?" Sam gave a weak smile.

Thing decided to meddle with the edges of the tapped bandage.

"Dude, you are so still high." Dean grabbed thing away. "Leave it. That's not chest hairs. That's puppy fuzz."

Sam winced as ocean waves of large rocks began to pound against his stomach.

"Sam, you're turning green-green." Dean sounded scare. "You going to be sick again?

"No." Sam swallowed back another goldfish escapee.

"Can you tell me what happened, Sam?" Dean pressed, obviously trying to assess Sam's awareness further.

"Got knocked out." Sam swallowed down.

"With what?"

"Dart."

"Right. Then?"

_Gawd he always felt so sick after the sedation started to wear off_.

"You going to be sick anymore?" Dean reached down toward the floor, reading his mind.

Sam shook his head no.

"'Cause I have the bowl right here." Dean lifted the container in show.

"I'm fine," Sam patronized, running his tongue back and forth over his clenched teeth, keeping the goldfish back.

"Yeah, sure you are." Dean set the bowl by his feet.

Sam sniffled.

Thing wiped his nose.

Dean made a face. "You remember what else happened?"

"I…" Sam searched the air as if he could pluck the answer to Dean's question from the room itself.

"I got you back with me, right, Sam?"

Sam turned, watching Thing go back to ripping the hole in the couch bigger.

Dean leaned forward insisting on an answer. "Right?"

"You see my head, tell it I'm looking for it," Sam groaned.

Thing started in on another button, bored of the big hole.

"Stop that." Dean chastised, capturing Thing. "Sam, you still have your head, man."

Thing wiggled away from Dean grasp, reaching up to caress Sam's forehead.

"No, kidding," Sam said wincing at the pounding going on there.

Dean snuffed, "Whatever Samuel darted you with must still be working its way out of your system."

Sam sprang upright, completely unnerved. "Samuel." His gaze flitted around the room, wildly-frantic.

"Hey." Dean gently pressed Sam back down to the couches toss pillows. "Told you. I got him."

"You got him?" Sam panted. "How? Where?"

"Thought I was the one asking the questions, little brother?" Dean chuckled lightly. "An arrow. Right between the eyes," he said seriously.

Sam stared intently at Dean, gathering his breath and composing himself. "He's d-dead."

"'S what I been telling you." Dean touched Sam's arm.

Sam thought about that a moment. Eyes expressive and watery, then he smiled. "Guess neither of them is going to get a-head in this world now, right Dean?" Sam's belly shaking laughter was cut off in a grimace at the pain radiating from his chest. "Uhhh."

Thing reached toward Sam's chest.

"Said to leave it." Dean stopped Thing cold.

"Feels funny," Sam muttered. "Itchy."

"Stitches, man. You're a human dartboard." Dean tucked Thing under the covers for safe keeping.

Dean," Sam whispered.

Dean bent in closer. "Yeah, Sammy?"

Sam swallowed repeatedly. "I…I…I…"

"Take your time, pal."

Thing came out of hiding and seized hold of Dean. Fingers gnarled into the front of his shirt.

"Gonna be sick again," Sam told him, gut wrenching nausea contorting his face.

"Oh, crap." Dean pulled away, quickly snatching the large stainless steel bowl at his feet.

"Ugh." Sam lurched forward just as Dean got the bowl under his chin, shoulders hunching as he heaved up pretty much nothing.

"Relax yourself, deep breath, Sam. Be over soon," Dean said an arm wrapped around Sam's chest to help hold him upright.

Thing white-knuckled the side of the bowl.

"Dean. "Sam squeezed his eyes shut.

"Yeah, pal."

"'Em sick," Sam said pathetically, curling over the bowl and retching hard - still no goldfish escaped.

"Really, dude? Never would have guessed," Dean spoke softly, pity in his tone. "You done?"

Sam grunted out a breath.

"That a yes?"

Thing shoved the bowl away.

Sam shivered, titling sideways as the room seemed to twirl around him at ninety miles an hour.

"Let's lay you back down." Dean nestled Sam down into the pillows, tucking Thing back under the covers. "We'll wait twenty minutes then try to get you to drink some more water. Don't need you getting dehydrated along with everything else."

"Thanks," Sam uttered. "Feel bit better."

"Well, well, well." Bobby stood in the kitchen doorway holding a rolling pin in one hand and wearing plastic goggles over his eyes. "Ass for brains er….the kid's finally awake." Bobby happily dusted off his flour-covered apron that read: _**Turn on the heat.**_

"Going with the dorky look this season, Bobby," Dean snarked.

"Those are Dean's goggles," Sam complained, then looked down at Bobby's feet. "Can't go swimming in the hot tub with no flippers," he chuckled. "Right, Dean?"

Thing struggled weakly out from under the covers and reached up to pinch Dean's right cheek.

"That's not what I used them for, Sam." Dean ducked away.

Thing abruptly headed for the opposite cheek.

Knock it off," Dean said irritably, lightly wacking the hand away.

Thing feebly plopped down to Sam's side and lay still.

"Boy's brains still riding the gravy train, and that hand of his is slicker than a bar of prison soap," Bobby noted, more to himself than anyone.

Sam gave a big yawn, eyes starting to close.

Dean brought the blankets up to tuck them in around Sam's neck.

"So, Bobby, what are you wearing the goggles for anyway?" Dean asked, giving Thing a 'good-boy' pat.

"Chopping onions. No more tears," Bobby said with a smile. "Works like the dickens too. Why? What were you using them for?"

"None of your bee's wax, Bob," Sam tried to lift his head, but couldn't.

"Bobby," Bobby corrected gruffly, then glared at Dean. "I don't want to know do I?

Dean blushed, and shook his head. "Nope."

Sam shifted about, trying to get comfortable. Eyes fluttering, he groaned fighting and losing the battle to stay awake.

"Dude? Need the bowl?"

"'S 'k." Sam wrinkled his nose.

"There's my favorite mixing bowl." Bobby stomped over and bent down to snatch up the container.

"Bobby, I don't think you want to…"

Before Dean finished, Bobby had the bowl in hand grumbling, "Ain't got a pot to piss in let alone a window to pitch this crap out of."

Dean scooted in to replace the pillows, laying Sam's head in his lap.

"Kid can hardly stay awake. He needs to get some more rest," Bobby bent in to take a closer look at Sam. "You know you're adorable, Sam, when you're falling asleep."

"Not falling asleep. He's out already," Dean snickered, gingerly scooting about to get comfortable.

"I'll let you ladies be." Bobby tip-toed away.

Hearing the sound of soft snoring, he turned to linger in the kitchen doorway, staring longingly at the couch.

The old piece of furniture had survived three moves back and forth across the state. Spilled beer and wine. More than a few bouts of flu. His wife Karen's white Persian cat, Annabelle, who liked to claw the back of it. All night poetry fests. Romantic dinners and other unmentionable activities for two. How many times had he fallen asleep there on the soft cushions before the final quarter of the big game? Cozy and warm and safe. The smell of homemade pie wafting in the air.

He often thought he should have burned the dream cabin when Karen had…had died. Bobby shivered. He did what he had to do where Karen was concerned, and it hurt like a bitch. Still did. He couldn't go there most days. As much as he couldn't destroy this part of his old life…that… he just wasn't ready to let go of. Probably never would be. The cabin would remain here for as long as he did and maybe even longer. The way Karen loved it. Away from the hustle and bustle.

He smiled at the two boys now sleeping soundly. Sam cuddled on Dean's lap. Dean holding Sam's hand. A draft blew down the fireplace, dispersing some of the wood ashes across the floor.

_Thank you for keeping my boy's safe _- whispered the hidden voice.

"My pleasure." A tear rolled down Bobby's cheek "Sappy old man." He retreated to the kitchen to empty the grossness from the bowl. There were dishes to wash.

The blah… blah…blah…whew! Blah - final end. Gah! Shrugs.


End file.
